


Crucify The Dead

by Christopherj



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Angst, Desk Sex, Drunk Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Rimming, Smut, Unresolved Sexual Tension, canon-compliant (sort of)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2018-09-24 01:22:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 22,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9693644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Christopherj/pseuds/Christopherj
Summary: A *sort of* canon-compliant retelling of things going on between Flint and Charles Vane post-season 2 and through to the end of season 3 (you have been warned). In which Flint is deeply hurt and wants but dares not take, and Vane is not a patient man. Then Blackbeard shows up and things get complicated.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> As stated, sort-of canon compliant. All of the Season 3 ugliness still happens. Beware of spoilers. More tags/warnings to be added with new chapters.
> 
> Rating is for work overall. It *will* get explicit when and if I can convince Flint to give in. More pairings later on.
> 
> Title from the Slash song of the same name, which I feel pretty much describes Flint's feelings towards society at large at this point.
> 
> Beta-ed by the lovely Fresiann who is ever patient with me.
> 
> My first work, not my first language, have mercy.

 

0.

 

_[some years before]_

 

Miranda had asked him one time, with that kind of stark simplicity she always had in asking the kind of things he'd never dare to say out loud: «Do you think you could ever love again?»

They were sitting outside, on her patio. It was towards the end of spring, the wet season getting ready to enter scene, as it always did, with a bang. Something that looked a dreadful lot like a hurricane had been approaching across the sky from Haiti's general direction; gusts of angry wind shook the palms, and the air was so wet and thick you could barely breathe it. It was somewhat of a consolation that the _Walrus_ had made port in time for once, and was now appropriately sheltered in the bay of Nassau, or at least as sheltered as it was ever going to be. As for its captain, he had long since come to the conclusion that he would never feel sheltered at all, no matter where. He couldn't remember whether the idea of sitting out on the patio had been his or Miranda's. They'd both agreed anyway, and so they'd ended up having tea outside, facing the oncoming storm. A less attentive observer would have deemed them defiant, though they were probably just resigned.

The question, unlike the storm, had come unannounced, with no warning signs. «Do you think you could ever love again?»

James Flint had cocked his head to the side, slightly, and given the question some serious consideration. The real point, he'd concluded, was not whether he could love _again_ ; it was that he'd never loved _before._ That was what made the whole difference. That was what made things so complicated. «Someone might say that I love you even now,» he'd said.

«Someone might say that you're a surprisingly bad liar,» she'd replied.

She wasn't letting divert the question onto something else, then; not that time. She got like that sometimes. He supposed mostly when she got bored, or frustrated. It must have been boring and frustrating both, her kind of reclusion, no matter how easily she seemed to take to it, especially considering what she'd left behind, and why she had. She had her little, subtle ways of taking out her frustration on him, which he didn't resent her for. He supposed, from a certain angle, one could even have said that it was all his fault really. So maybe she had a right to it. So maybe this was just another one of those times.

Except of course it wasn't, so he turned the question on her. «Do you think you could?»

«Perhaps,» she'd said. It had taken her surprisingly little to come to an answer. She was tight-lipped, her words curt, almost snapping. «But I don't have any interest in trying it, quite frankly».

That was an honest answer, he knew it. Or at least more honest than all the things he kept telling himself. Even the simple thought that he could possibly, at one point in his life, feel something that strong for someone who was not Thomas felt already like betrayal. He wasn't going to entertain the thought, not even to deny it. «Why are you even bringing this up?» he'd sighed. «Why now? Do you want me to move on? To have it all buried and done with?»

Her lips were still tightly pressed together; she looked almost like she was in pain. «I don't see how we could bury it,» she'd said, «when we couldn't even bury _him_ ».

It was not an answer, not quite. Flint had known better than to press her for one.

«I don't think I have more interest in it than you do,» he'd said instead.

She'd seemed satisfied with that, or at least she'd nodded, briefly, silently, like he'd paid his dues with that answer and she saw no reason to torment him any further. It had started raining: big, fat drops that promised a lot more. They splashed inside Miranda's teacup and left dark splotches on Flint's trousers.

«Let's go inside,» she'd said, looking away from him.

But they hadn't, not for a while.

 

 


	2. I.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Flint is not coping particularly well, Vane is not cooperating, and Silver, as usual, has to make everything work.

I.

 

As the last tendrils of smoke disappeared behind the horizon and the Spanish man-o'-war safely set sail away from Charlestown, Flint caught himself thinking: I may never get another chance as good as this to have it all buried, like she probably actually wanted. Except he hadn't been able to bury _her,_ either. So he supposed there was no chance at all. Never would be, probably.

Except, now no one knew. Anyone who'd known was dead. He could have pretended none of it had ever happened, and there was no one left who could have called him out. Thomas was gone, Miranda was gone, even Peter fucking Ashe was gone. Had he decided to erase the whole thing from his memory, pretend none of it had even been real, just some made-up story, a fabricated scandal someone had concocted to prevent Thomas' plans for Nassau from ever happening – no one would stand up and call him a liar. Except, of course, that voice in his head, the one that wouldn't shut up. The one that was already, even now, calling him a traitor. The one that'd never stop. He could set fire to half of the Caribbean, and it would probably still not be enough to silence that fucking voice. You should have died with him, and you know it, the voice suggested now. You would have died with him, had she not made you run instead, and part of you always quietly resented her for that. And yet, now you were given a perfectly good occasion to die with her, and here you are. Running away again.

He turned his back to the sea and retreated down to his cabin – mostly because, in the mood he was in, it would probably be a matter of moments before he started shouting someone down for any completely trivial reason he could conjure.

He was not expecting to find Charles Vane sitting on his bunk.

The way in which he closed the door behind him came worryingly close to slamming it. «What the Hell are you doing in here?»

Vane didn't get up. He just shrugged. «What do you think? I'm moving in». He nodded towards a corner of the cabin; Flint's eyes followed – mostly unwillingly – and spotted a dirty-looking burlap bag abandoned against the wall. Vane, as it seemed, didn't carry much in the way of personal effects. Flint turned to look at the other captain again, and set his face to be as stern as he could possibly manage.

«That's absolutely out of question,» he sentenced.

Vane looked completely unfazed. «You do realise, right, that I'm not asking for your permission».

Flint's first instinct was to punch him – maybe that would have wiped that smug little smile off his face, at least – but he found that he was too tired even for that. It had been far too long a day without adding a fight with Charles Vane to the list. «Listen,» he said. «This is my ship. And this is my bloody cabin. And there is no way in Hell you are staying here, so don't even think about it. You can have a perfectly good hammock below deck with the crew».

«Should I remind you that it's only your ship because I don't care enough to fight you about it?» Vane sounded bored, which added further offense to his words. «Or that taking it from your men was painfully easy? Or that if I hadn't come in to save your sorry hide you would be swinging from a rope somewhere in Charlestown, and there would be no question who this cabin belonged to? If your hammock below deck is so perfectly good then _you_ can have it».

Flint gritted his teeth so tightly that he almost thought he was going to chip them. As much as he hated it, there was no denying that Vane's points were at least technically true. «I can't have my crew see me giving ground to you,» he said.

«Well, there you have it then». Vane smiled – he had a smile like a hungry wolf's – and Flint thought: he enjoys getting on my nerves, the bastard. «We're sharing».

Flint stared at him. «I'm not sharing a bed with you».

«Hey, there, slow down». Vane chuckled. There was an amused glint in his eyes. «No one said anything about sharing a bed. Why, would you like to?»

He can't possibly know, Flint had to tell himself. He's just trying to rile you up. It'll only be worse if you let him. So don't.

There weren't many options, really. Given that he would not move below deck with the crew, and Vane would not be moved, and Silver could not be made to give up his own quartermaster's lodging on account of his recovering amputee status, there was only one answer to the problem. They could bring another load of blankets up to the cabin, and one of them could sleep on the floor.

And that was absolutely not going to be James Flint.

 

*

 

«I think we ought to have a plan in place before we get back to Nassau».

Trust John Silver to be the one to come up with something like that first thing after coming back to his senses and finding out he'd narrowly escaped death, while still being confined to bed with the loss of a leg to deal with. The man had all the right priorities – or the wrong ones, Flint wasn't quite sure – and a brain that never stopped working. That made him incredibly useful, almost as much as he was dangerous.

«I already have a plan,» he replied. «Though I am not sure that everyone will like it».

«Which is why you need my help to enforce it,» Silver suggested.

As unpleasant as that was, Flint wasn't going to deny it. Besides, he'd had to swallow down plenty of unpleasant things in the past few days, and he had a feeling the situation wasn't going to get any better anytime soon. «The way I see it, after what we just pulled there, we are at war. We can't choose not to be. England will read what happened as a declaration of war, which frankly is what I wanted it to be, and they will act consequently. So we need to behave like we're at war, too. That starts with putting up an united front. I want to get as many men as possible to swear an oath to defend Nassau at all costs, put together our forces, put together our ships if necessary, and share whatever part of the workload the situation requires them to share, even if it's not the one they like. Even if there's not much gain in it».

He leaned back in the chair, and flinched with pain. Silver, of course, immediately noticed. «Are you all right?»

«I think I cracked a rib on my way out of Charlestown,» he lied, because the sentence 'I'm getting back pains from sleeping on the wooden floor of my cabin because Charles Vane has taken over my bed' was one that would never leave his mouth, and especially not in the presence of John Silver. «I'll survive. So what do you think?»

«I think that you're never going to be able to pull that on your own,» Silver said. «No matter how clever you are about it. It's a lot of reluctant people you're trying to sway. You'll need others to support you. Others who have some significant influence they can use».

They were clearly thinking the same name, so Flint figured he might as well say it. «Like Charles Vane».

Silver nodded. «Who I hear has actually been behaving in the past few days. So will he stand with you on that?»

Flint had spent days asking himself the same question. Probably, he thought. Vane was arrogant and annoying and just had to find an angle in pretty much everything, but stupid he was not. This being Vane, more likely than not he'd ask for something in exchange. Flint had a very strong suspicion that it was going to be the ship. Relatively small price to pay, he supposed. «It's in his best interest to do it».

Silver gave it some further thought, then seemed convinced. «Do you want me to talk to him?»

There was no end to the list of ways that could possibly end badly. Flint shook his head. «I'll take care of it».

He imagined he'd have to do it anyway, sooner or later.

 

*

 

There are people in the world whose concept of personal hygiene is to take off their shirt, fill a bucket with sea water and upend it over their head. It just figured that Charles Vane would be one of those. Honestly, Flint didn't know what else he'd been expecting. He watched Vane shake the water from his hair pretty much like a dog would, and then he stopped watching because he very definitely didn't want to be watching, and he wanted even less to be caught watching. Obnoxious and infuriating Vane might be, but you could still bounce a quarter off his abs, and it was hard not to notice when his skin was wet and glistening that way.

«You know that's only going to make things worse,» Flint growled, staring intently at his boots.

«It washes the dirt away,» Vane shrugged. Droplets of water were running down his bare chest, which probably gave him an unfair advantage in any oncoming negotiation, and one that Flint didn't want to acknowledge. He'd known the man for years, loathed him for almost as long, and for all that time he'd compelled himself not to look. The way in which Vane always managed to grate on his nerves, let alone the endless amount of times when he'd been openly antagonising Flint or actively disrupting his plans, had greatly helped. Now that they were, at least in name, on the same side, Flint found that it was becoming increasingly difficult not to notice that Vane, for all his unnerving attitude and unbearable smugness, was nothing short of gorgeous. There were moments Flint almost wished they were back to trying to kill each other.

One such moment had been the morning before, when Flint had been woken up by something sounding suspiciously like a groan, had turned around, and had managed to trace the origin of the sound to his own bed, where Charles bloody Vane's hand was moving in a suggestively rhythmic way under the blanket. He wasn't sure that he'd ever experienced such utter and complete disbelief before in his life. «Are you seriously,» he'd said, the words leaving his mouth before he could stop them.

Vane hadn't even stopped moving. He'd just craned his neck a bit to shoot Flint a fleeting glance over his shoulder. «Nobody's asking you to stay and watch,» he'd objected – his breath slightly strained.

Leaving would have been like admitting defeat and therefore out of the question. So Flint had just turned to the other side and growled, «You know, if this is a plan to never make me want to sleep in that bed again, it's working».

Then of course he'd had to lay down and wait until Vane was done with it. It had felt like an incredibly long amount of time. He'd determinedly made himself not look, but it was a lot harder not to imagine, and he still had to listen. He was fairly convinced that Vane had dragged it on on purpose, just to make him uncomfortable. He'd even moaned a bit, towards the end. Flint had pointedly decided to regard the embarrassing half-erection that had given him as a normal early-morning reaction, and to consequently ignore it. He'd left the cabin in somewhat of a rush, in the hopes that Vane wouldn't notice it either.

If they had to talk serious business, it really couldn't go like that.

Now Flint tried to compose his face in a show of as much seriousness as he could summon. «We'll be in sight of Nassau in two days at most,» he noted. «There's a big challenge waiting for us there».

Vane grinned. «Suppose you'll be glad to see the last of me».

«Suppose that will be far from the last I see of you, considering».

That seemed to amuse Vane, who lifted an eyebrow with a little satisfied smirk. «We're officially partners now, then?»

He offered Flint his hand, and he was left with no other choice but take it. It was warm, and wet, the palm rough with calluses. The handshake lasted slightly more than it probably should have. Flint wasn't sure that he'd liked the emphasis Vane had put on the word 'partners', either. Was that a challenge, too? Was everything going to be turned into a challenge, with them? Was that how the rules of the game were going to be?

He already felt tired. «Do at least have a proper bath before we get to land,» he sighed. «With proper water. You stink, you know».

That, of all things, managed to make a look of genuine surprise appear on Vane's face. «You have a bathtub on this thing?»

Flint shrugged. «The Spanish captain had one. Didn't see any reason to get rid of it. Not that it gets used much, what with rationing water and all that, but we  _are_ less than two days from land, after all».

He realised one moment too late that the image of Charles Vane in a bathtub was not one that he wanted to have on his mind.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still not my first language, still my first work. Beta-ed but all mistakes are fully mine.
> 
> I wish I could say the angst is going to go away at some point, but it isn't. Sorry not sorry.
> 
> I'm overindulging my Charles-Vane-being-wet-and-shirtless kink and I'm not sorry for that, either.


	3. II.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Charles Vane is more articulate than Flint gave him credit for, and also briefly naked.

II.

 

The Spanish captain's bathtub had clearly made an impression, because when Flint came back from his first hunting trip out of Nassau he found that it had been disembarked and carried to the fort, and Charles Vane was currently soaking in it.

Flint had given him the man-o'-war after all. Firstly, because he didn't really need it; the  _Walrus_ was more manageable anyway, he was more familiar with it, it required less of a crew and the Spanish ship was probably better suited to defend a port than for the kind of swift attack-and-retreat necessary in the pirate trade. Secondly, because appeasing Vane was not in itself a bad idea – let him believe that he'd managed to get the ship off Flint if that made him happy. And thirdly, because with the threat looming above it Nassau was in dire need of all the gun power it could muster at any given time, and the man-o'-war could provide a whole lot of it. It made sense, really.

It made less sense that Vane would receive him while having a bath. Though he found that he was too tired to complain. So he just closed the door.

«It seems that you've settled just fine,» he said.

«More or less,» Vane nodded. «There's a lot of work to be done to repair the fort. Jack is getting it done. Rather, he's trying to get it done. He's having difficulties».

Flint had found a chair. He sat down. «What kind of difficulties?»

«He's trying to convince a bunch of pirates that heavy repair work is their idea of a nice afternoon spent on land».

Flint lifted an eyebrow. «Should I scare some people into cooperating?»

«If they're not scared of me, I don't see how they'd be scared of you». Vane stepped out of the tub and grabbed a rag to dry himself up.

Flint tried very hard not to look, but it was an unfair challenge. The man was definitely something to behold, especially in moments like this, when it became increasingly clear that he wasn't really trying to taunt Flint, he was just so perfectly confident with his own body that he simply didn't care. Not that Flint wondered what the reasons for that confidence were. He had a body honed like a blade, just as perfectly balanced and just as dangerous. It was all Flint could do to resist the urge to run a hand down the plane of his stomach, not even in a sexual way, just to see what it felt like. And then of course there was the other detail, the more than sizable detail between his legs, the one that Flint had to force himself to divert his eyes from. Now _that_ was a confidence booster, that was for sure.

«I thought you disapproved of that,» Flint gestured towards the tub. Vane had slipped his trousers on, thank God. Now he was grinning, again.

«I disapproved of the waste of drinkable water while out at sea,» he argued, fetching himself another chair and sitting in front of Flint. Somehow too close for comfort, but respecting people's personal spaces had never been his chief quality. «We're on land now, though. How was your trip?»

«Fruitful,» Flint nodded. He caught a glimpse of something on Vane's face that he hadn't expected to be there: like a hint of disquiet. «Is everything all right?»

Vane tried to shrug it off. «Just feels weird,» he admitted. «After all these years hating you, working together. I find that it comes strangely easy to me, a lot easier than I expected. I'm not saying that it's going to last forever, but in a way it feels right. Maybe you understand things better than me, I'm not saying it's not true. But I understand bravery, and I understand valuing freedom, and you showed plenty of both, back in Charlestown. Took guts, to do what you did. That I can respect». He crossed his arms over his chest, with a flex of muscles that Flint found somewhat hard to ignore. «Maybe I always respected you for that. Maybe that's why I hated you so much. Others weren't much of a challenge in the first place, easier to just ignore them. You though, you were something else. Good enough to be wary of, and I couldn't quite place you. Wasn't sure what made you tick. Felt like you thought you were better than me, and maybe part of me feared you'd turn out to be right».

That caught Flint completely unawares. Charles Vane opening his heart to him that way was most certainly not what he'd expected from that meeting. Charles Vane admitting he'd been scared of being lesser than him, even less. «Why are you telling me this?»

«Because it needed to be said». Vane's eyes were clear, cutting, like a challenge. «If we are to be partners, if we are to work together, we need to be sure of each other's motives. I can see it, you know. That you're wary around me, like you think I'm going to stab you in the back at any moment. I could tell you I'm not going to, but then you'd think I'm trying to double cross you. You're far too clever to simply take assurances from one like me. You need to know my motives. So here they are». He threw his head back, quickly: definitely a challenge this time. «I'm not sure that I like you, but I respect what you did. What you said, about fighting back, I think that was right. And I think you'd be better than me at running this whole thing, because you're probably better at running things, full stop. I'm good at fighting fights and taking prizes. You've got your plans and your bigger pictures and all that, and I'm fine with letting you take care of it. So, here it is. I'm not going to stab you in the back. Believe me now?»

Flint actually found it somewhat worrying that he did. He had not expected Vane to be that articulate. He had not expected Vane to think the matter over that deeply, either. Mostly he'd hoped the prospect of outright war would satisfy both Vane's bloodthirst and his desire to see the world burn. Yet, he did sound sincere, and he was certainly making sense. Perhaps Flint _had_ misjudged him, after all. «So what do you want me to say?»

«I don't know». Vane bent forwards, with the result of getting even further into Flint's personal space. «Maybe start with telling me what you actually think. Come on, I've showed you mine, now show me yours».

How tempting it was, to twist those words, to let himself imagine an alternative set of events where Vane's provocation was aimed at getting a glimpse of Flint's body, not his mind. He hadn't indulged in that kind of fantasies for the longest of time; he hadn't let himself. And Vane _had_ showed him his, truly – albeit probably without giving it much of a thought. He wasn't letting his mind stray that way, though. He'd forbidden himself that kind of thoughts for the longest of times, and he wasn't going to break his own rules now. _Especially_ not about Charles Vane. Not that he'd ever entertained any kind of attraction for Charles Vane, in any case.

_Some might say you're a surprisingly bad liar_ , Miranda had told him once.

«All right,» he surrendered, and he rested his back against the chair's backrest, trying to put as much distance between Vane and himself as was possible while still being subtle. «It is true that I'm not sure I can quite trust you, even now. It is also true that I thought I was better than you». He inhaled, deeply, because now he'd said it, there was no going back, he'd have to run with it. «I thought you were rash, sometimes to the point of stupidity, and overindulgent in violence just for the sake of it. I thought you had poor strategic thinking, though the little stunt you pulled on my men in Charlestown may have proved me wrong on that one. I thought you cared little for the things that were truly important, not out of choice, but because you were simply too blind to see the bigger picture. I thought you stood no chance of ever actually achieving anything meaningful, because of that. Frankly, I thought at times you were little better than an animal _». A beautiful animal_ , he didn't add. _Some kind of predator, smoothly stalking through the night, sharp, violent, dangerous. And beautiful._

He had half expected Vane to punch him in the face, and half decided that he at least partially deserved it; but Vane surprised him once again. «You know, Eleanor told me something pretty much like that,» he said.

Flint didn't care to know any kind of details on Vane's dalliances with Eleanor Guthrie, nor was he keen to have Vane compare him to any of his past lovers. «So what?»

«That's what I might ask you,» was Vane's reply. «So what?»

That punch in the face was starting to sound rather better than this, but he was too far gone to stop now. «So maybe I was wrong,» he conceded. «I may have underestimated you. Do you want me to apologise?»

Vane shook his head. «If you think I'm hunting for apologies, then you're still getting me wrong».

 

*

 

Silver was waiting for him outside of the room. Flint could only hope that by now he'd know better than to try and eavesdrop. «So, how did it go?»

Good question, Flint thought. He wasn't quite sure himself.

«Better than I thought it would,» he decided.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No sex yet, but we're getting there, I swear.
> 
> It is my headcanon that this conversation, or one very similar to this, must have happened at some point post-season 2 (though probably there was no bathtub involved, that's just me).
> 
> Beta-ed as usual by the darling Fresiann, all mistakes absolutely mine, and so on.


	4. III.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Vane is tired of waiting and Flint has been drinking too much rum.

 

_He'd seen Flint looking. Not that it was difficult to notice. The man thought he was subtle, and he was as blunt as the butt of a gun to the back of the head. Charles Vane had spotted him looking ages before, way back when they were still arguing over who got to hold the fort and even earlier than that, when Eleanor had tried to make them partner up to recover the Urca gold. That one time, Flint had spent the entire meeting hurling provocations at him – not yet enough for Vane not to notice that all the unwarranted aggression was probably covering up for something else. He was looking all right. He barely managed to pretend that he wasn't._

_That in itself was nothing new. Vane was used to people looking, men and women alike. He knew they wanted him, and he didn't half mind. He'd indulge them every now and then, if he felt like it. It was sex he didn't have to pay for, which in most cases was good enough for him. There were times when it had become more than that, of course; way more than that. Eleanor had done far more than just look – he'd let her – he'd probably let her again, at that, because she was truly something, and he was stupid that way, he supposed. Assuming she wasn't dead yet, which was a thought he'd rather not entertain. There had been others too; none since her, of course. But there had been others before. All the way back to Edward Teach, who'd been the first, when Charles was little more than a boy. The first to look, and the first to take. Charles had let him back then, after putting up a little bit of a fight because it was what was expected of him, but without ever meaning not to lose it. And now, with Eleanor gone, perhaps forever, one had to at least consider letting someone else get a bit closer, at least for a while. And Flint – was it really so absurd? The man had a fire in him that you had to admire; he was wild, he was stubborn, he'd let no one get on his way. And he had a body worth looking at, for all his scars, strong and tough and rugged under his loose shirts in a way that promised violence and danger and perhaps something else, too. So, Flint: why not? He'd been looking, after all. Wouldn't even be the craziest thing Charles Vane had ever done._

_Except Flint was like none of the others had been. He would look, but he would never make a move; he would look, but he wouldn't ask. The others had asked all right – loudly, sometimes; a little bit desperately, some others. Some had come right short of begging. Eleanor had demanded, or at least pretended she was demanding, to save face, and he'd given her a pass because she had no other way of doing it. And Teach, of course, had just taken what he wanted, because that was his way of doing things. Vane had even considered letting Flint do the same, if that was what it took – if pride was what was standing in his way; if Flint felt that it would burn too much to come to him and ask. But there seemed to be more than that. No matter what hints were dropped in front of him, Flint would simply not take them. No matter how wide a berth he was given, he wouldn't take advantage of it. He would sit there, and look, almost shamelessly so at times, and yet do nothing. He'd sit there and seethe silently. Driving himself crazy, probably. Hell if Vane knew what his deal was. Then again, the man had always made precious little sense._

_Flint might have been ready to sit there and do nothing for a couple more years, or maybe he even enjoyed tormenting himself, but Charles Vane had always had precious little patience for that kind of things. If Flint wasn't going to put aside whatever his problem was and do something about this of his own accord, then he'd make him do it._

 

*

 

A bottle of rum landed on the table right in front of him with a thump. Flint stared at it. Then he stared at Charles Vane's tanned hand, still grabbing the neck of the bottle. Then he stared at Vane himself.

«What's that supposed to be?» he asked.

Vane shrugged. «I'm drinking. You're drinking. Might as well drink together».

Flint turned slowly to look at the two more bottles, already empty, abandoned on the table by his side. Vane was right on that one, he'd be hard pressed to deny it. He could tell him that he wanted to be left alone, but then he'd have to explain that he was drinking in the hopes of chasing away Miranda's ghost, of drowning with rum the sound of her neverending silent scream. He couldn't make himself say the words, and most certainly not to Charles Vane, of all people. Besides, it wasn't working. He was on the wrong side of tipsy, and still Miranda was shouting at him in his head. There was no way he could explain that to Vane. He nodded, tiredly. «Sit down».

Vane sat. Flint could see the fabric of his shirt tensing over his muscles as he leaned back in his chair. God, but he was something, Flint thought. He watched Vane pour the rum and remembered those hands wrapped around his throat, that one time Vane had ambushed him and almost managed to kill him. The thought shouldn't have sent that weird thrill down his spine. I'm way too drunk already, he thought, taking the glass Vane was pushing towards him. I really shouldn't be doing this.

«Are we drinking to something?» he asked, raising his glass.

Vane was looking at him with those weirdly magnetic blue eyes of his. «I don't know. Are we?»

Flint gave it some thought. «What about to freedom,» he suggested.

«I'll take that». Vane lifted his glass in turn. His hand was steady; the corner of his mouth was lifted in that ever-present smirk he had. The overconfident bastard. «To freedom, then».

They drank. The rum was the cheapest stuff you could think of, so nasty that you had to be already drunk to hope to enjoy it. Flint suspected that enjoying it was not the point. He could barely taste it anyway. They set down the empty glasses, and Vane poured again. Around them, the inn was getting rowdy; it was late in the evening, and there was laughter, and song, and the growing noise of an argument getting violent.

«Place didn't use to be so shit before,» Vane said, peering over the rim of his glass. As if to confirm his words, in the background someone smashed a barstool on someone else's head. Most of the men drinking in the room seemed completely unfazed by the burgeoning row. «Wouldn't have dared to cross Eleanor, none of them. Can't blame them for that». The fight was dying down already; there was someone bleeding on the floor, someone else trying to help him get up. «I miss her sometimes,» Vane admitted, putting down his glass, still half full.

Flint had made short work of his own. He didn't wait for the other man to refill it this time; just grabbed the bottle and did it himself. He didn't care to hear how much Charles Vane missed his girlfriend; nor did he care to admit that he too sometimes wished Eleanor was still there. Everything would have been a lot easier with her help. The man on the floor had got up; he was still alive, then. Lucky. Or unlucky, depending on how you chose to see it.

«Don't you miss her?» Vane asked. «That Barlow woman?»

Flint's first thought was to punch him straight in the face. Maybe it would have even made him feel better, a good fight. Maybe it would have made him feel a bit more alive. But he found he didn't have the strength to do it, and Vane didn't look like he was purposefully trying to rile him up. «You don't know what you're talking about,» he said, through his teeth.

Vane just looked at him, blue eyes piercing, that smirk still on his lips. «Don't I?» He downed his glass, and put it back on the table, upside down; as if they were playing some sort of drinking game. «Don't you feel alone, at night, when she's not there? Don't you wish there was someone? Someone else, if not her?»

He thought, for a split second: how does he know? For a moment he felt something almost akin to panic. Then he realised there was no way Vane could possibly know about Thomas. His head was spinning, and not from the alcohol. «What do you want?» he spat out.

Vane was still unfazed. «Not the right question,» he replied. «I think the right question is, what do _you_ want?»

It was as if the entire room had suddenly gone silent. It hadn't, of course; but his brain had shut out all the noise. Through the haze of the room, he could suddenly see details with unusual vividness. Vane's hand resting on the table. The little braid tucked behind his ear. The stubble on his jaw – the way it would have felt if Flint had reached out across the table and touched it. He almost did. He stopped himself at the very last second, when he saw the weirdly expectant look in Vane's eyes and realised, all at once, against every logic, that Vane _wanted_ him to.

So he reached for the rum instead and drank whatever was left of it, straight from the bottle. When he was done he dropped it, let it roll down the tabletop. Looked at Vane again. Found him still waiting.

«I'm not nearly drunk enough for this,» he said.

He didn't know what he'd expected Vane to do. But he certainly hadn't expected him to push back his chair and stand up, and say, «Very well then,» like nothing much had happened. He hadn't expected him to turn his back and calmly walk away and out of the inn as if there wasn't really anything else to add. Flint was so taken aback by it that he almost followed him.

Almost.

Instead, he went to the bar and got himself more rum.

 

*

 

When he came out of the inn it was late, drunks were roaming the streets singing shanties, and although he didn't feel much like joining the singing himself, he was definitely not quite steady on his feet. He'd got himself another bottle for the way. The air was warm, mellow, full of the chirping of crickets. He almost wished it could be cold and biting and harsh, like it had been in London, a lifetime before.

Charles Vane was right outside, on the other side of the road, leaning with his back against a wall, smoking one of those nasty-smelling cheroots he seemed to have an unlimited stash of. Flint wasn't really surprised to find him there. He'd almost expected him to be there, he realised. Maybe a part of him had even wished he would.

Vane didn't move from where he was. He didn't make any sign to him, not as much as a nod. Neither did Flint. They just stood there, looking at each other, he didn't know for how long. He thought, if I don't move first we'll be here all night.

«So, are you drunk enough now?» Vane called out at last.

Flint didn't answer him, because he wasn't sure he could. He wasn't sure he had an answer. He almost wished he could hear Miranda screaming at him in his head, now. But he'd managed to do what he'd set out to, apparently, because he couldn't.

«We can get a room,» Vane said.

He wondered what exactly Miranda would have shouted at him now, had he still been able to hear her. Had she been able to see him.

«I'm not walking you back to your ship, you know,» Vane said.

Flint cursed under his breath, crossed the road, and went to him.

 

*

 

They stumbled more than walked into the room, and when the door slammed shut behind them Flint wasn't quite sure who'd pushed it. Vane half fell, half sat on the bed, and Flint let him grab him by the shirt and pull him down. He ended up on top of Vane, somehow, straddling his legs. There was noise from downstairs. Someone shouting, someone singing. Someone having sex. He briefly wondered if someone would be able to hear _them_ , then if someone would even care. He briefly wondered what the fuck he was doing.

«You're still thinking,» Vane growled, through his teeth. «You need to stop».

Flint opened his mouth to say something, he didn't know himself quite what. He'd never know, because Vane didn't let him. It was almost more of a bite than a kiss, hungry, ferocious, a thing made of teeth trying to bite at Flint's lower lip, Vane's tongue trying to find its way inside Flint's mouth like he'd wanted in for a long time. Vane's hand was still clasping Flint's shirt; the other, the left, had found its way up to Flint's shoulder, and was grasping it so tight that it hurt. Flint welcomed the pain; it was the first thing he'd actually, really felt since he'd lost Miranda, the first thing that actually felt real. It was different, this thing that was happening, from anything James Flint had ever known, different, perhaps, from anything he'd ever dared to imagine. He had not allowed himself the company, the closeness of another man since he'd lost Thomas; he'd lived of memories. But they had been memories of soft, gentle hands and kind murmured words, of kisses light and fluttering on his skin – on his shoulders, on the back of his neck – and compliments whispered in his ear: _so lovely, James, so beautiful._ This was different; so different he could barely have thought it possible. Charles Vane had a sailor's hand, rough with calluses; his kisses wild and frantic, hungry, like he wanted to devour Flint; the noises he made almost animalistic, a low vibration that didn't contain any words. He smelled strong and musky; he smelled like the sea. Flint doubted that smell ever left him. In some odd, unexpected way, it was comforting. Vane's long hair was damp with sweat. Flint let it run between his fingers, without even thinking what he was doing, grabbed it, found himself pulling Vane close; felt Vane murmuring his approval, panting it open-mouthed against Flint's lips. His mouth was wet and harsh and something Flint had not quite known he'd needed.

Charles Vane's voice, low and raspy, against his mouth: «You're wearing too many clothes».

Flint couldn't do what he was asking, wouldn't do what he was asking, even now. So Vane just grabbed his shirt and ripped it off him, and the sound the fabric made was like something giving way. Then Vane's mouth was on his neck, biting, sucking, making a shiver run down his spine. He didn't want to let go, could not afford to lose control, but he couldn't help closing his eyes and tossing his head back, and when he next knew what was happening he realised that his hands were clenching on Vane's shoulders and he was all but rubbing up against Vane's body. Vane must have noticed it, too, because a moment later Flint felt a hand slipping down his trousers and grabbing him. He bit back a swearword, something that perhaps wanted to be an insult, he wasn't sure himself. In the dim light of the room, he thought he saw Charles Vane grin. He wanted to make it an insult, on purpose this time, but Vane anticipated his again. Flint wasn't quite sure when or how he'd found the time to undo his own trousers, but he couldn't help gasping when he felt Vane pushing with his hips up towards him, then wrap his hand around both of their cocks at once. He was terribly hard, so hot that it felt like burning.

He didn't last long after that. There was no way he could have. The feeling was simply too much – Vane's body so close to his, so strong, so _real_ , the smell of him, the feel of his muscles tensing under Flint's hands, the warmth of his skin, his cock throbbing against Flint's own. Before he could stop himself he was burying his face in the crook of Vane's neck and letting go with a loud groan, coming harder than he had in a long time, possibly harder than he could remember ever coming.

He wasn't sure that Vane had come himself. He wasn't sure that he cared. Vane didn't let him go for a while, and that surprised him. The hand that wasn't holding their cocks was splayed on Flint's naked back, the palm rough and warm against his skin. It felt like somehow it was holding him in place, and for a moment Flint didn't want it to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, some smut! More or less. We're getting there. I anticipate more angst to come, though.
> 
> Long chapter is long. I'm sorry.
> 
> Shout out as usual to my beta/typo hunter Fresiann!


	5. IV.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Vane is dealing fairly well with the aftermath, and Flint not as much.

IV.

 

When he woke up, he was alone in the room. He reached for his shirt, and found that it was in tatters, at the foot of the bed. Everything was quiet. Flint had no other choice but put his boots on and cautiously make his way downstairs.

He found Charles Vane sitting in a corner, smoking one of his stinky cigars and looking like there was absolutely nothing out of place. Early as it was, there was no one else around – mercifully so; being shirtless, together with his mounting headache and the memories of the night before coming back to him, made Flint feel uncomfortably vulnerable. He tried to stare Vane down, with no result. He sighed and sat down.

«You owe me a shirt,» he said.

«We'll find you one,» Vane replied. How could he manage to look like this was nothing, Flint couldn't fathom. «Not that you look bad like this».

«Don't». Flint stopped him with a sharp gesture of his hand, though Vane looked all but repentant. «Who knows about yesterday night?»

Vane shrugged. «Jack owns a big share in this place. If we don't want anyone to know then no one knows. They'll think I was with a girl. Tell them you were with one too. With your woman Barlow gone, it makes sense».

Flint could've hit him for talking of Miranda like that, but he hadn't done it before, and now it was too late. Besides, Vane _was_ right, it made sense. «Jack knows then,» he said instead.

Vane shrugged again. «What do you care that he knows? He's seen worse anyway. Hell, he's seen a lot worse from _me_. Why are you so strung up about this?»

Flint found himself clenching his teeth, instinctively. He would have given all of the Urca gold to not have to answer that question. «It's none of your business».

There was that glint in Vane's eyes, the one that never promised anything good. Half too clever, that one. «It wasn't the first time, was it? You. With a man».

«I said it's none of your business».

Vane must have heard something in his voice, because he didn't insist. He put out his cigar on the table, even though it was only burnt halfway through. «We'll get you a shirt,» he said again. «I'd imagine you want to go back to your men. You know where to find me anyway».

Flint watched him get up, turn his back to him like nothing at all was amiss. For a moment he was almost jealous of the ease with which Vane seemed to be handling this.

«That thing that happened yesterday night,» Flint called out to him. «Won't happen again. As far as you're concerned it didn't happen the first time either».

There was a little smile on Vane's thin lips. Whatever happened next, he'd won already, Flint thought, and they both knew it.

«If you say so».

 

*

 

«Get word to the crew to get the ship ready. We set sail as soon as she's good to go».

Silver turned to look at the door and found Flint standing there. The expression on his new quartermaster's face, Flint noted, was far from happy. «I beg your pardon, we are what?»

Flint reached him by the desk at which Silver was sitting, looking at papers Flint didn't care to identify. «Setting sail,» he repeated. «I got a tip about a pirate execution. That demands retaliation. Swift retaliation, at that».

Silver's expression now was tense, almost contrite. «That's very soon,» he noted. «We've barely been back. The crew won't be happy».

«Then make them happy». He felt antsy, nervous: like he hadn't slept at all in the night. It was like he still had Vane's smell on him, and he almost feared Silver could sense it, too. Perhaps it was the borrowed shirt. «I don't care how you do it, that's your job, not mine. My job is to strike fear in the people of the colonies, and that's what I'm doing. It requires striking immediately after the fact, or it won't work. We want these people to think we're striking in more than one place at once, even. We can hardly do that by staying in port».

Silver sighed; he opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, shook his head and sighed again. «We've been in port three days. The crew expected more than that. The crew deserves more than that, and if you -»

Flint didn't let him finish. He slammed his hand on the desk. «We're at war,» he said. «Normal rules don't apply to people at war. Tell the crew to get the ship ready».

Silver probably had more complaints, but Flint didn't want to hear them. He turned his back, and made for the door. Silver's voice stopped him in his tracks when he had almost reached it.

«I hope this isn't personal,» he said. «Because if we really are at war, then we need you to see things straight even more».

He turned again. Silver hadn't moved. He was still sitting at the desk, a silent question in his blue eyes: perhaps wondering if he'd said too much, but stubborn all the same. «I am seeing things straight,» Flint said, deadpan. «Have no doubt about that».

Another sigh from Silver. He knew Flint would take no argument, and yet he couldn't let go. «Where have you been yesterday night?»

If I don't tell the truth, he thought, he'll probably find out anyway; half the truth was probably the best bet. «At the brothel, if you must ask. So you can see I'm fine. Do your job, quartermaster».

Silver let him go this time. He was almost disappointed; he wasn't sure that he wanted to be left alone. The moment he reached the room he was staying in, he took the shirt off, balled it up and threw it in a corner. He felt dirty beyond any hopes of cleaning. When he closed his eyes the night before came back to him in flashes: Vane's body close to his, warm and tanned and solid, his fingers twined in Vane's hair; Vane's voice murmuring, almost snarling, words he couldn't quite recall. The want he had felt; even worse, the shame he had not felt. He felt it now, too late.

He leaned with his hands against the wall, and found it rough against his palms. It wasn't what he'd done, not really; it wasn't what he'd let Vane do, even. It was that he'd liked it – that he'd let himself like it. To like _this_ , of all things, after all he'd denied himself, out of respect, if nothing else, for Thomas' memory, for what they'd had, so that what they'd had would not be stained, not be perverted, and now – that he could have been so weak, and given in to this, and _liked it_ –

He felt short of breath. His hands were shaking. He wanted to cry, and couldn't; he hadn't been able to since Miranda had died.

_I'm sorry. I'm so sorry._

He needed to take to the sea. He needed the solitude only the sea could give him, the distance from the reality of the world, the empty noise of the waves. He needed to smell gunpowder and see blood, to get some release of a kind that was not forbidden to him. He needed to be far away from Charles Vane and anything he could promise or offer, away from his smile and the disturbing lack of any judgment behind it. He needed to take to the sea again, as soon as possible.

Silver would convince the men. He was good at it, and it wasn't like Flint had lied to him. They were at war, and war required action.

They were all at war, and he was at war more than all.

 

*

 

_There was something about Flint, and he couldn't stop thinking about it._

_He'd thought at first it was nothing more than a whim, getting in bed with Flint. A thing done out of curiosity, out of boredom almost, just to see if he could do it. He'd thought, once it was done, he'd give it little thought: another memory, mostly pleasant, worth as much as any other. Charles Vane had never been a sentimental man. Sex was sex, and pleasure was pleasure. It was not like him to make much of a deal of any bit of random fun. Flint, though, had been more than a simple bit of fun: he could see it now. There had been very little about the entire deal that could be deemed simple. It was enough to leave him intrigued._

_It was pretty clear that the way he'd read the situation was at best incomplete. He'd suspected Flint of being simply repressed, of wanting but not daring to take that last step forward. He wouldn't have been the first Vane had seen, that couldn't take that step on his own, that needed a bit of a shove. But after the way Flint had been, when he'd finally given in, there was no mistake that there was more to it. Flint had been hungry, and frantic; he'd looked almost like he was in pain; he'd taken all that was given to him like he desperately needed it, and yet he'd given back very little, as if he didn't dare to let go. That was different; that was interesting. That was not a man who'd kept his desires under check for a long time, and finally let go and taken what he wanted. That was a man who'd known the pleasure first, and given it up, willingly, and was afraid to allow himself that pleasure again, afraid of the consequences. What kind of consequences, Vane couldn't possibly know: but he had every intention of finding out._

_Now Flint had set sail again, almost in a rush, almost as if he was running from something. Perhaps he really was. In his mind, Vane suspected, Flint was probably always running from something. From what, the Devil knew. Perhaps not even Flint himself knew for real. One thing was certain, though: in the end he'd have to find his way back to port, and when he did, he'd find Vane there, waiting for him. Charles Vane might not have been known for his patience, but he knew how to hunt a prize. He was good at it. He understood the rules, and knew how to play by them._

_He hadn't thought at first he'd want more, once it was done, but he found now that he did. There was too much he hadn't seen yet, too much Flint hadn't been willing to show him. Even with all the rum he'd drank, he'd been incredibly restrained. Even when he'd apparently let go, at the end, it had not been completely so. There was more that Flint was holding back, more that he was desperately trying to hide from him, and now Charles Vane wanted to know what it was. He'd always liked a challenge, after all._

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I come bringing more angst. It was to be expected. On the plus side the next chapter is shaping up to be extra long and probably start solving some things. Somewhat.
> 
> I pity Silver for having to deal with it. Honestly it's been my main feeling for him throughout season 3.
> 
> Also, it is clear that I can't write short things. Also, that I can't try and write porn about rare pairings that I like because the plot will overpower me.


	6. V.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Flint has a rather intense fight with himself, and loses it.

V.

 

There was an odd soothing quality in blood and smoke and carnage. The fact that he could see it and not even find it strange should have worried him, but by this point Flint was ready to take comfort wherever he could find it. Well, almost. At least this was a legitimate outlet for his rage and his pain, one that made him feel like he was doing something to fight back against all the wrongness. One that made him feel like he could still be strong.

Truth was, though, he was desperately weak.

Absurdly vivid dreams had plagued him every night for as long as he'd been on the water. Miranda had counted the hours of the night with him, walking silently by his side, her dress all wet as if she'd just been fished out of the sea, as if she'd been standing out in the storm. Flint had looked at her with his eyes full of questions, but she appeared to have no answer. Even when she leaned close to whisper something in his ear he couldn't remember the words. He woke up and his bunk felt cold and damp, as if upon disappearing she'd left a trace of the sea behind her.

And when it wasn't Miranda haunting his dreams, it was Charles Vane. Who was far from dead, and that meant Flint would have to confront him again, once he was back. For some reason he was quite sure that Vane wouldn't just let him be. He was like a shark, Vane was; once he'd first bitten he would never let go. And Flint had let him bite all right, had let him sink his teeth in Flint's own flesh where he was most vulnerable and now he had to deal with the consequences. He'd told Vane it was as if their night in the brothel had never happened, but he was lying through his teeth. Now his brain saw fit to replay that night to him whenever he closed his eyes to sleep, to remind him of Vane's hand splayed open on his back, burning like a fire brand, of Vane's teeth on his neck, of his stubble against Flint's skin.

There could be more, the dreams suggested. They showed him images he didn't want to consider, images that had been lingering in the back of his mind for far too long – they'd probably been there already when he and Vane were at each other's throat over the fort, and he'd just forbidden himself to think of them. Now, in the dreams, he couldn't shut them out. Vane reclining naked on the brothel bed, his legs spread, his cock wet and heavy. Vane on his knees, his lips slightly parted, Flint's hand resting on his head, not fighting it, waiting for Flint to fill his mouth. Vane's back, muscled and scarred, turned to him, bare for him to run his hands on, Vane's firm arse bared to him in a silent offer, and the glance Vane would shoot him over his shoulder, daring Flint to come and get him... He woke up drenched in sweat, terribly hard, his hands shaking. He stubbornly refused to touch himself to those thoughts. But the images stayed with him all day, no matter how hard he tried to chase them off, to the point that they made him tense and nervous and prone to snapping. He could see Silver looking at him with worry in his eyes, wondering what the cause of his bad moods was, wondering with all likelihood about his mental stability. Silver had it all wrong, of course. Flint wasn't going to rectify his impressions, not any time soon.

By the time they were back to Nassau he was wound up more tightly than a string on a fiddle, and his men were watching him with newfound awe and more of a hint of fear after seeing him be even more bloodthirsty than usual during their last raid. He'd barely felt the relief that came with the violence, and what little he'd felt had not lasted long. Maybe even the killing was not enough anymore. He hoped not, because if that was the case, he frankly didn't know what else to do.

As soon as they were on land, he asked Silver if he could fetch him a razor and some soap.

A part of him had almost expected – he was not going to use the word _hoped_ – to find Charles Vane already waiting for him in his room, but the place was empty. The shirt he'd borrowed from Vane before leaving was still lying crumpled in a corner, exactly where he'd left it. He made himself not look at it.

By the time Vane actually showed up he was done, and the razor was resting abandoned on a chair. Vane had not knocked – no surprise there – but he stopped on the doorstep, and made no sign to actually come in. He looked at the razor on the chair, and then at the locks of reddish hair scattered on the floor.

«You've shaved your hair,» he said.

Flint nodded. «So it would seem».

Vane leaned against the door frame and lifted an eyebrow at him, questioning. «What for?»

«Reminder». He crossed his arms over his chest, silently daring Vane to comment. «I felt that I needed one».

Vane didn't ask him what of, which surprised him. Instead, he came in. «They tell me you got a lot of blood on your hands this time,» he said.

Flint stared him straight in the eyes, but he couldn't see any sign of deceit. «Nothing they didn't deserve».

«I didn't say that I minded,» Vane noted.

He'd come far too close; Flint could almost feel the heat radiating from his body. Or maybe it was just his imagination. It would have taken so little, to just lean in and bring their mouths together. It could be that Vane sensed his discomfort, because he was the one who stepped back.

«Can I have that back?»

It took Flint a second to realise that he was talking about the shirt on the floor. He nodded, silently; his mouth felt dry. Vane walked over to the corner and picked it up. He turned it in his hands as if it was some weird curiosity to be examined. Then, to Flint's surprise, he pressed it to his nose and inhaled, deeply.

«Smells like you,» he said.

Flint's fists were clenched so tightly it almost hurt. «Don't,» he warned, through his teeth.

Vane just smirked at him. «Well, thanks for that then,» he replied. «I'll see you around».

He was out of the door before Flint could decide whether or not he wanted to stop him.

 

*

 

He managed to resist the urge not to let Vane have the last word for the greatest part of the afternoon. By the time he'd made his way up to the fort and made sure that Vane was indeed there, it was getting dark. The sentries at the door shot him puzzled looks as he went past them.

Vane was sitting at his desk, but he didn't appear to be reading, or writing. Flint wondered if he'd been there all day, doing nothing, just patiently waiting for him to show up. A tallow candle was burning its last on the desk; it was almost fully consumed.

«We need to talk,» Flint said. «About what happened before I left».

There was a glint of irony in Vane's eyes. «I thought you'd said it had never happened».

Flint swallowed, hard, but the lump in his throat didn't give way. «I know what I said».

Vane pushed his chair back a bit, but he didn't get up. He was looking at Flint, weighing him up. «Hard to talk about something that never happened».

Going to him had been a way of admitting defeat, Flint was not so stupid not to know it. And yet he couldn't make himself surrender, not even now. «You can be sure I would not have said a single word more about it if I could have helped it. But it's not going away. It's on my mind all the time, and it's not making me think straight, and I need it gone».

There was a long moment of silence as Vane seemed to consider the situation. Then the question Flint had been fearing came.

«Why are you here then?»

He'd cornered himself; he'd left himself no way out. Perhaps this was what he really wanted, the reason he'd come all the way to the fort after all. «Because I have this itch,» he admitted. «And it's driving me insane. And I think if I scratch it maybe it will go away».

He expected Vane to look triumphant, but Vane suprised him once again by just nodding. He was perfectly serious as he stood up and walked around the desk, and stopped at a more than safe distance from Flint, and took off his shirt, then his boots, and then his trousers. And he was still perfectly serious when he looked at Flint again and asked, «Is this what you want?»

In the brothel room, he'd been the one fully dressed, while Flint had his shirt off. In the heat of the moment, it had been easier not to feel the power imbalance. It should have been much more difficult to ignore it now, and yet, in spite of the fact that Vane was the one fully naked in front of him this time, he somehow still didn't feel like the scale was tipped in his favour. Maybe it was because of Vane's confident stance – seriously, no man should look so much at ease while not wearing any clothes – or maybe it was because of the way he was looking at Flint, like he honestly wanted an answer to the question. Oh, but he looked glorious like that, that rugged, powerful body laid bare, proudly displayed like there was no shame in it. It was all Flint could do not to go straight to him.

«The door is not even locked,» he said.

Vane didn't move a single inch from his spot. «You didn't answer the question,» he observed.

In spite of himself, Flint gave him a wordless nod.

Vane seemed to deem that enough, because he went over, naked as he was, and locked the door. Then he shot Flint a rather significant look. «Then come get it».

It was somehow the right thing to say. There were many things Flint could not do, but he understood a dare, and he knew how to handle one. So he walked over to Vane and kissed him.

The kiss was just as wild as it had been the last time, fierce and intense and almost violent, all that Flint had imagined during his days on the sea and something more – because this was at last real, Vane's teeth biting at his mouth were real, and the taste of salt and rum and cigar smoke on his lips, and the warm naked body pressed against him, Vane's cock, already half-hard, pushing against his clothed thigh. When they parted at last, they were both panting. Vane stepped back, grabbing Flint's shirt and pulling Flint towards him, and Flint found himself following him all the way back to the desk. He watched Vane sit down on the edge of the desk and grin at him one list time before lying back and he thought his heart might have skipped a beat.

Vane spread his legs and propped himself up on his elbows to look at him. «What are you waiting for?»

Flint stared at him, between arousal and disbelief. «You can't be expecting me to take you dry».

«If you wanted a show, you should just have asked,» came Vane's reply. Before Flint could even make sense of the statement, he was watching Vane dip two fingers in the little pool of still-warm tallow from the candle, and then reach between his legs and rub it on his entrance, and then – Flint was pretty sure he'd heard his own breath hitch as Vane's fingers slipped in, first one then the other, and Vane threw his head back with a satisfied groan, exposing his neck in a way that made Flint want to bite him.

It was almost entrancing, watching Charles Vane finger himself, his movements slow and steady, his back arching just a bit off the surface of the desk every now and then when he hit a spot that made him moan – moan a bit too loud, perhaps, in a way Flint suspected was meant to entice him. Worse, it worked. Before he even knew what he was doing, he found himself grabbing Vane by the wrist, pulling his hand almost forcibly away. Vane looked at him, blue eyes bright under heavy eyelids, and grinned.

«That's more like it».

He quickly undid his flies, somewhat awkwardly, one-handed, then reached for Vane's other wrist, pinning him down on the desk with both hands. Vane pushed back a bit, but it was done playfully, not really fighting it. Flint could see that his cock was wet already, leaking on his tense stomach, and it was just through sheer self-restraint that he could resist the temptation to bend down and lick it. Instead he pulled Vane closer, right to the edge of the desk, and slammed into him with little ceremony, hard enough that the groan that escaped Vane's mouth was sincere this time. He felt Vane hook his legs around his waist and push himself down onto his cock, without a moment of hesistation, and once again Flint was shocked by how utterly shameless he was, how he panted and moaned like any whore would have done, how he seemed to completely relish the act, as dirty as it was. Flint found it disconcerting and yet incredibly arousing. He found himself rutting into Vane with complete abandon, letting out all the tension, all the frustration that had plagued him since that night at the brothel, all the insane pressure of pure _want_ that had plagued him since much, much earlier. Charles Vane seemed to meet his thrusts with his whole body, almost pulling himself up to let Flint get in deeper, clenching around him and drawing him in. Flint was still holding his wrists pinned to the desk; he was so tense that his back almost ached. When he came it was in a rush, so intense that for a moment he saw stars. It was only when he came down and pulled out that he noticed the little white pool of come on Vane's belly and realised that he hadn't been the only one to reach climax.

He let Vane go – he was so wrung out that he almost apologised for holding him down that way – watched Vane rub at his wrists where Flint had grabbed them. «You weren't half lying,» Vane said, with a soft chuckle. «God, you _were_ riled up».

Flint was already buttoning himself up. «I'm glad you enjoyed yourself».

Unexpectedly, Vane went serious again at that. «Wait. Don't go yet».

Flint could hardly believe him. «What, do you want a cuddle?»

«No». Vane was peering at him with something that dangerously resembled curiosity. «But I have rum. You could stay and drink with me. I wouldn't mind».

To his own surprise, Flint found that he wouldn't mind, either.

 

 

*

 

So they drank, and they talked of a number of things, and they studiously avoided talking of what they'd just done. Vane had put his clothes back on, and in that moment it felt almost as if he'd never taken them off. He was not bad company, Flint had to begrudgingly admit, when he put his mind to it. He could be even pleasant. More surprisingly, he could be discreet. He didn't ask any difficult question, and Flint was vaguely grateful for that.

By the time they finished the rum, it was late. «You could stay the night, you know,» Vane suggested, when Flint made a move to get up. «Plenty of space in here».

«And have everyone talk about it come morning? No thanks». He pushed the chair back in place. «I promise I won't fall into any ambushes. Since when do you worry about me, anyway?»

«I don't». Vane had that unnerving little smile on his lips again. «Maybe I just enjoy your company».

Flint walked out of the door without gratifying that one with a reply.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter, as expected, is long. On the other hand, smut! Also my personal take on when and how Flint shaved his head (something I am not quite over yet, still mourning the loss of his gorgeous hair).
> 
> Flint really is his own worst enemy. I've been convinced of this since season 1 and the more I watch of it the more I believe it.


	7. VI.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Flint almost says too much.
> 
> Almost.

VI.

 

He found himself coming back. He found out that it was very easy to make excuses to get all the way up to the fort and ask of Charles Vane. There were strategies to be discussed. There were time scales to be agreed upon. There was the progress of the repair works to be checked. There was speculation to be made on what may possibly be England's next move. All legitimate reasons why they should sit together and talk, reasons that wouldn't arouse any suspicions in the people who saw them retreat in a room and bolt the door.

And for the greatest part, talk was what they did. It was somewhat comforting, talking to Vane, who said it like he thought it and wasn't certainly one to tiptoe around the sensitive topics. They did talk about England and the threat at hand, and about the men who were doing very sloppy work on the fort repairs, and the way in which Rackham seemed to have trouble reining them in. They talked once about Eleanor Guthrie's possible fate, and Flint wondered what Vane felt at the thought of her on the gallows in London, but Vane didn't say and he didn't dare to ask. They talked once about Charlestown, and Flint was somewhat surprised by how few sensitive questions Vane actually put to him. It was nice, talking to someone who felt like he wasn't trying to play him.

Well. Vane was _probably_ trying to play him. But in a rather different way.

Fairly often, once they were done talking about the serious stuff, Vane brought out the rum, and they drank. Things got riskier then. It was still uneasy ground, for the most part, and it was terribly difficult to figure what Vane wanted at any given moment. As for what Flint wanted, it had by now become painfully clear that scratching the itch had not made it go away. It had taken the edge off his frustration – he'd slept, the night after, for the first time in a long while without nightmares – but it had still left him thinking back on what had happened. It was hard not to remember how it had been, Charles Vane's body under him, the way he'd been so scorching hot inside, the way he'd been so shameless in drawing Flint in, in taking his pleasure from him. It couldn't be denied that Flint wanted more; there was no way he could bring himself to ask for it.

Luckily – or worryingly, he wasn't yet quite sure – Vane didn't wait for him to ask. Once he'd slid under the desk while Flint was still talking, a mischievous glint in his eyes, and made short work of the buttons on Flint's fly, and pulled him out and sucked him dry, Flint's hands grabbing the edge of the desk so tight that his knuckles went white. Coming down from a climax that had hit him way too quick and way too strong, Flint had looked down to see him wink and wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, and it had almost been enough to get him hard again. Another time, when Flint had lifted his tankard towards him to get a refill of rum, Vane had leaned in instead and kissed him hard on the mouth, and the next thing Flint knew the rum was forgotten and he was grabbing at Vane's shoulders, grabbing at his hair, pulling somewhat too hard and watching Vane respond with a hiss and a grin before kissing him again, even more ferociously. They'd ended up on the floor, and this time it had been Flint pushing his fingers inside Vane's almost unbearable heat, after slicking them quickly with his own saliva. It hadn't been nearly enough lubrication and the burn must have been bad, worse when Flint spread Vane's thighs open and pushed in, but he found that he didn't care. Vane seemed to care even less. He'd slid a hand between their sweaty bodies, working himself at the same pace that Flint was pounding into him, and locked his eyes with Flint's like it was a challenge. They'd come almost at the same time, so hard that Flint found himself out of breath.

«One would think you'd have a bed, somewhere in here,» Flint had said, once he'd gathered himself. They were still lying on the floor side by side, on their backs, Vane naked, Flint shirtless and with his trousers undone.

«I do,» Vane had chuckled. «I shared it with Eleanor, you know, the night before she betrayed me. Do you want the same treatment?»

Flint had pulled himself up, ignoring the dull ache in his back that he hadn't noticed in the heat of the moment. «I'm not one of your women».

«Neither was she,» Vane had said. He was still staring at the ceiling. Flint had not known what to say to that.

They found their way to the bed in the end, some two days later, though Flint would be hard pressed to tell exactly how. It was late, they'd been drinking, he was just too tired to lend himself to another wild rut on the floor. Vane had looked at him and said, «Why don't you just stay the night,» and he'd been too tired to say no to that, too.

So they ended up in bed. It was surprisingly comfortable, though the place smelled like Vane, smoky and tangy and with that slight salty whiff of the sea, and Flint found that mildly disconcerting. When they were done they laid next to each other, catching their breath, and it felt familiar, in a way that Flint wasn't quite sure he was yet comfortable with, and completely new, in a way that he yet found far from easy.

«Do you think the men know?» Flint asked at last, quietly.

«Well, if they're not blind and deaf». Vane seemed oddly unconcerned. «What do you care if they do? Half of them will have done the same at some point or other. At worst they'll be jealous that you're the one fucking me. Or that I'm the one fucking you».

Flint sighed. «How are you so comfortable with this?»

«Real question is, why do you have such a problem with it?» Vane shot him a side glance; he seemed genuinely perplexed. «What do you think will happen if they get to know? People have known that I have a taste for men on the odd day ever since me and Blackbeard had our thing, and they haven't feared me any less for that».

Flint pulled himself up to take a better look at him, but Vane still looked absolutely unfazed. «You and Teach?»

«Don't pretend like you don't know it, I know it was the talk of the whole beach. Not like we ever did anything to hide it». He sounded almost wistful, if that could possibly be a thing. «I could tell you stories about some of the things I let him do to me. And I suspect you would enjoy hearing them».

He watched Vane lean over the edge of the bed, rummage in his bag, and fish a cigar out of it. Flint stared at him in disbelief. «Are you going to smoke in bed?»

«Sorry, I don't care how good you are, you're not going to stop me». He could have complained further, but he didn't; he watched Vane light up and take a couple puffs, and almost coughed from the smell, that much up close. Vane rested his back against the headboard. «He was my first, Teach was,» he reminisced. «Well, my first time with a man anyway. Taught me some things about it. He knew a fair few tricks».

Flint acknowledged the news with a noncommittal hum. It wasn't really a surprise to him; he didn't want to linger on it, on the off chance that Vane was right and he'd enjoy it a bit too much. That certainly sounded like Blackbeard; the man had always had an immense appetite for all sort of pleasures, and he'd let no one tell him that he had no right to have them.

Vane blew a smoke ring, which floated in mid air for a moment before dissolving. It was almost a perfect O. Flint watched the movement of his lips as he made another, and tried not to think of how skilled those lips could be.

«So what's your story?» Vane's question caught him unawares, when he was starting to think the worst of it was past. «You're not new to this. It's quite clear to me that you know how to fuck a man. And I think you learned it from someone who knew how to fuck _you_ ». He turned towards Flint to study his reaction, and Flint could see the tendrils of smoke drifting from his mouth. «So who was he? Aside from your Mrs Barlow I've never known you to take anyone to bed. My men used to joke that maybe you couldn't get it up».

Flint bit back a bitter laugh. «I assure you that I'm more than capable».

«Trust me, I've noticed». Vane took another long draw from his cigar. «Who was he, then?»

Flint rolled over on his side, turning his back to him. He didn't want Vane to be able to see his face. When the words came out, they did so seemingly of their own accord; he was barely aware that he was speaking them. «It was a long time ago,» he said. «Before I even came here, back in England. I was young, and it was all so much. He was... something else. To this day I'm not even quite sure what».

Vane stayed silent for a moment. Processing the information, Flint thought. He had an ashtray on a chest near the bed; now he used it to stub his cigar out. «You lost him,» he said at last, very quietly. «Didn't you? You don't sound like you walked away from him. Or like you let him go. Something happened, and you lost him somehow, and now you feel like you have no right to have anything like it again. You've been driving yourself up the walls, for years, because of that. Am I right?»

Flint's teeth were clenched so tightly that he was surprised himself he could open his mouth to let the words out. «You don't want to know about it,» he replied. «You don't need to know. And I'd be grateful if you didn't ask again».

He'd half expected Vane to lean closer, to put a hand on his shoulder or something like that. To insist. But Vane did nothing of the sort. He stayed exactly where he was, leaving a healthy distance between Flint and himself. «It's a very long time to go without it,» he said at last. «Little wonder you were so wild when you finally gave in».

For a crazy moment, Flint almost asked him: do you feel the same, about Eleanor Guthrie? Do you feel like you've lost her, do you feel that hole in the middle of your chest that feels like no matter what it can never be filled? And if so, how do you live with it?

It was a question that could never be asked, of course. So he didn't ask it. He laid still and silent, and Charles Vane didn't say anything either, nor did he try to touch him. They stayed like that, without speaking, listening to each other's breathing, each lost in their own thoughts, for what felt like an endless amount of time, until the lamp finally ran out of oil and the room went dark.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This sounds a lot like... *gasps* domesticity?
> 
> This fic is getting HUGE, I think I'm halfway through and dreading the moment when I'll have to rejoin the plot of season 3.


	8. VII.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they still don't get each other, but Flint stays anyway.

VII.

 

The magistrate had a wife, very young, a petite woman with big green eyes who was shaking like a leaf with fear and begging for mercy right until the moment Flint put a gunshot in her head. He was sure she had not suffered, and Miranda hadn't got a better treatment, but it still rankled. In moments like that, revenge was a duty that gave him little satisfaction. In moments like that, it was more of a burden than a release.

He carried the burden with him, back on board the _Walrus_. He carried it all the way back to Nassau. He had more nightmares, in which his hands were stained with blood and no matter how much he tried to wash them it wouldn't go away. Then the door would open and Thomas would step in, and he would look at Flint with this terrible hurting look in his eyes. He would look at his bloodstained hands and shake his head with all the sadness in the world.

When Flint woke up he almost could feel a presence still lingering, all around him. He couldn't put a name to it and didn't dare to try.

He knew he looked tired, and he knew Silver must have noticed, because the man was observant and was keeping a close eye on him, probably for good reason. «Did something happen?» he'd asked Flint one afternoon, when they were maybe two days away from port. «While you were on land? Something that I ought to know?»

He'd shaken his head, as an answer. «Nothing that shouldn't have,» he'd said, and then, because though Silver was not insisting the question had not vanished from his eyes, «I do what must be done. It doesn't mean I have to enjoy it».

Silver seemed to have been satisfied with that, because he hadn't pushed further. Either that, or he'd seen something on Flint's face that had made him not dare.

When they got to the anchorage they were met, surprisingly, by Charles Vane, lingering by the dock. He was looking nonchalant, but Flint had no doubt whatsoever who he was actually waiting for. None of the men seemed to pay him any particular attention, but the thought unnerved Flint all the same.

«What are you doing now, playing the forlorn wife?» he snapped at Vane, once they were back to the fort and had been left alone in the room. «Next time try clasping a lace handkerchief to your breast or something like that, makes for a better show».

Vane didn't laugh. «Whatever bit you, I suggest you make it go away,» he replied, brusquely. «I wanted news from your raid. You and I may be having some fun on the side, but that doesn't mean you're allowed to forget who I am».

He couldn't make himself apologise, so he didn't. He fell down on a chair, with a sigh. «It wasn't pleasant,» he said. «It's necessary, and I'll do it, but I get no joy from it. This was no Charlestown. It feels like a bitter revenge sometimes, and it comes at a very high price».

Vane's mouth had a weird twist, harsh and determined. «They get what they had coming to them,» he replied.

Flint shook his head. «I'm not you. I get no pleasure from watching the world burn. I thought I may get some relief from it, but I'm not quite sure anymore».

Vane's eyes were fixed on him, sharp, piercing. Flint wondered what he was thinking.

«Then let me give you some relief».

 

*

 

«That's more like it,» Vane panted, when Flint pushed him face down on the bed without too much care. Flint couldn't quite see his grin, but he was still sure it was there. It made him _want_ , even more intensely. Vane had been right, he thought; if some degree of relief was to be found, it was probably here, in this room, in this bed, in their unlikely sharing it, in this wild, frantic coupling. He wanted it; he craved it; he was desperate for it. He had not felt desire with such intensity since Thomas, and even then it had been different. Thomas had been a calming presence, a soothing influence capable of placating the fire that raged constantly inside him. Charles Vane stoked that fire deliberately. It made him feel like he was letting go of all restraint, and it was liberating. Perhaps it really was what he had always needed.

He spread Vane's thighs, lingered for a moment with his palms splayed on his arse. He could guess more than see the hidden furl of his hole, and for a moment he was tempted to bend down and kiss him there, taste him there, see if he could make him come undone in the same way that Vane made _him_ , just by the sheer confidence with which he took what Flint had to give him, the brazen sincerity of his wanting. Instead he fumbled for the vial of oil that was by now always at hand on the chest by the bed. He suspected the stuff was procured by Jack Rackham via one of Max's whores, but it was a thought he didn't like to linger on. He uncorked it with his teeth and spread it on his fingers, and the smell of sandalwood rose to his nostrils and he thought there was no way he was ever going to associate it with anything but sex now. Vane growled his approval when Flint's fingers breached him, and the sound went straight to Flint's head and straight to his groin, made him lean over Vane's body, his fingers still deep in Vane's arse, and bite him hard on the neck, right above the shoulder. It was a sensitive spot, and he felt Vane's back arch under him, a string of muttered swearwords escaping Vane's mouth.

«Quite the filthy mouth you have there,» he panted, and he was himself surprised that he could joke.

«Shut up and get on with it,» Vane growled at him.

So Flint did. He pushed down with his fingers looking for that one particular spot that never failed to make Vane go wild, and he relished the feeling of Vane's body bucking against his chest, the sound of the hiss Vane let go through his teeth. He pulled his fingers out and lined his cock up and bit back a swearword of his own when he felt that tight heat, Vane's muscles clenching around him like his body was aiming one last dare at Flint. Flint took the dare. He twined his fingers in Vane's hair and pulled his head back, and he knew that must have hurt, but Vane was panting with pleasure, not pain, and the thought of it was intoxicating. He slid his other hand under Vane's body and found him hard and wet, worked him roughly with his hand, trailing sloppy kisses over his neck, over his jaw, Vane's beard scratching at his lips. He found that spot on Vane's neck again and bit hard, sunk his teeth where he could feel Vane's quickened pulse. He tasted blood in his mouth, and all self-restraint was gone with that, and there was nothing left but heat and pleasure and _want_ and his hand still tangled in Vane's hair and their bodies joined together, until he came down and found himself still resting on top of Vane, and vaguely realised that he'd probably never come so hard in his whole life.

He stumbled back, slipping out. Vane was feeling for the spot on his neck where Flint had bitten him. The mark he'd left was going purple already. There was no hiding that, Flint thought.

Vane pulled himself up, still rubbing at the mark. «I feel like I've been in a fight».

You could almost see the outline of teeth in that bruise on his neck, Flint thought. It made him cringe, a bit. «Sorry about that,» he mumbled.

Vane answered his worry with a bark of laughter. «For what? No one had fucked me like that since Edward bloody Teach left this place. It was fucking brilliant, that's what it was». He must have noticed the contrite expression lingering on Flint's face, because he suddenly went serious. «Why is it bugging you?»

He couldn't think of a valid excuse, so he found himself telling the truth. «I lost control there. And I can't. Not with this kind of things, especially... especially with this kind of things».

He'd half expected Vane to berate him for this, tell him he was being stupid, but Vane just nodded. «You have a lot trapped in your head,» he said. «Can't hurt to let it out. I won't tell anyone, if that's what you worry about».

Flint sat down on the bed, with a sigh. His head was full of thoughts, swirling around like crazy moths. «Why do I trust you?» he sighed at last. «Of all the people I have reason to be wary of, you should be top of the list. So why do I feel like I can trust you?»

Vane scooted closer, leaned in to look him in the eye. «We come from the same place, me and you,» he said. «We want the same things. We feel the same things. The same rage, the same thrills, the same desires. We are the same».

Maybe he was right, Flint thought. Maybe this was something not even Thomas had ever been able to see, and yet Charles Vane now saw it, and what did that mean? That, he thought, was by far the scariest part.

«What is it?» he asked. «This thing we have. What is it to you?»

Vane shrugged. «My freedom to take what I want. Your freedom to take what _you_ want. Something else maybe. What do you care? It feels good. I don't need to know much more than that».

Freedom, Flint thought. The word itself felt alien, something he'd never truly experienced. Charles Vane knew about freedom. He'd had to fight for his. It was no wonder that he valued it above everything else. Could it be that he was right?

He stood up. There was silence outside the room, perhaps too much, and it felt eerie. Everything felt just a bit too real, and he felt lost and found, at the same time.

«Don't go,» Charles Vane called out, behind him.

Flint turned to find him still sitting on the bed. «Don't go,» Vane said again. «You don't have to hurt yourself over this. Stop denying yourself. Stay».

And Flint went back to him, and did exactly that.

 

*

 

«Where does this leave us?» he asked, the morning after, as they were putting on their clothes. «Where do we go from here?»

«I don't know». He could see the frame of Charles Vane's body under the fabric of his shirt, the purple bruise on his neck. A reminder, no less than Flint's shaved head. «I don't much care. It feels right enough to me».

«Those who get close to me have a bad tendency to get hurt,» Flint warned him.

Vane laughed. It was a surprisingly refreshing sound. «None of them was me, though,» he pointed out. «You'll find I'm tougher than most».

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More pre-season 3 development, because I like fooling myself that the moment will not come. (one more chapter before it DOES come, I think. Somebody save me).
> 
> I remember watching S03E01 and getting the feeling that Flint doesn't particularly enjoy enacting revenge, though he probably wishes he did. That's where the start of this chapter comes out of. 
> 
> My ideal soundtrack for this one is David Bowie, Stay.


	9. VIII.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is quiet before the storm.

_There was no getting out of it, not anymore. They were entangled together, far too tightly by now, and more so by the day. Flint was probably also aware of it. The thought scared him, Charles Vane could tell. Yet he kept coming back to it. He kept coming back over and over again._

_Vane suspected that by this point Flint couldn't give it up any more than he could._

_By now they'd learnt the steps to that particular kind of dance, gone through them so many times that it was not worth counting them anymore. Flint would come back to Nassau with blood on his hands and death on his conscience, and Vane would be waiting for him. They would fuck first, and talk later. Flint was at his roughest then, slamming him against the nearest hard surface without asking for permission, rutting into Vane's willing body like his life depended on it. Both of them came out of it with their breath ragged and their hearts pounding, came out of it with bruises, sometimes even cuts. After that it was somewhat less frantic, but no less intense. Flint had been reluctant to give in, but once he'd done so, there was no stopping him. He was like no other man Vane had ever taken to bed before. He had a single-minded commitment to their encounters, an intensity that Vane had not quite expected of him and that yet made perfect sense. Charles Vane had always been a man of extremes: when he wanted something, he wanted it all, or nothing. Flint gave him almost more than he could handle, and with a raging passion to rival his own. Vane didn't quite understand it – not entirely – but he found it intoxicating, and addictive._

_He hadn't known anyone, since Eleanor's betrayal, that could make him_ feel _so much._

_Once the edge had been taken off, Flint got somewhat calmer, though not less intense. They could talk then, and they did, about a number of things that often had no connection to each other, some of them trivial, some of them surprisingly deep. He would tell Flint about previous lovers, without quite knowing himself why. He told him how Eleanor would cling onto him like she was in desperate need of support but would vehemently deny doing so once the deed was done. He told him of women he'd bedded because they looked like her, and how he'd stopped doing it after realising that it didn't make him feel any better. He told him about his first time with Edward Teach, of the subtle fear he'd felt faced with something he knew only in theory, of how the pleasure had been a surprise to him following that, and something he'd instantly known he could not do without. He had no clue himself why he was confessing to all of that, to Flint of all people. Flint listened with a dead serious look on his face, like the fate of Nassau depended on it. Sometimes he made a snarky comment, sometimes he said nothing. Vane could not imagine what was going on in his head._

_Flint never reminisced about his own past, never told him any tales of his own. Never pronounced the name of the mysterious man he'd almost admitted to loving, never gave any hint to what had taken that man away from him. Vane knew better than to push. He didn't care about Flint's past anyway. He was in this with Flint in the present, somehow – all of this, the defense of Nassau, the compact bringing the entire island together, and the private things that happened in the bedroom in the fort. He wasn't sure what kept Flint in it, and he didn't want to compromise it by asking one question too much._

_He was sure of one thing: Flint was unlike any other man he'd ever taken to bed. He was fierce, unpredictable, and dangerous._

_Vane wasn't new to courting danger, though._

 

 

*

 

VIII.

 

«What the Hell is going on with you and Vane?» Silver asked him one afternoon, as they were sitting on the beach watching preparations being made for the _Walrus_ to set sail again on the next day. «I understood you were supposed to hate each other. These days, you might as well be joined at the hip».

Flint shrugged, and studiously avoided looking at his quartermaster. «Circumstances mean that we have to work together. We must rely on each other. I find him surprisingly dependable».

Silver was still looking suspicious. «Dependable is not exactly the word I was thinking of».

Flint found himself tensing up, very much against his own will. Silver was the most observant man he'd ever met; there was no doubt he would notice. «Whatever gossip the men are talking about, I would suggest you don't listen to it».

Silver must have been feeling brave that day, because he didn't let go. «I'm not listening to any gossip,» he said. «But I need to protect the interests of this crew. So if you're making yourself vulnerable in any way with Vane, I need to know».

He sighed. Sometimes he wondered if Silver's newfound bravery didn't border on foolishness. «Trust me, vulnerable is the last word I would use to describe whatever I am with Charles Vane right now».

He was lying through his teeth, and he wasn't quite sure that Silver bought it. Truth was, he wasn't sure himself of what was going on, and whether it should worry him. Silver's fears, he suspected, were not entirely unfounded. It was true that he'd shown Vane things he'd never shown anyone, except for Miranda; things Vane could no doubt have used against him if only he'd wanted. And yet he felt absolutely certain, though he could not possibly have said why, that Vane could be trusted. Which was frustrating, because Vane's past record with him most certainly didn't warrant that trust. Still, the certainty remained, so strong that he would have probably bet his own life and that of his whole crew on it.

Which, come to think of it, he was most likely doing.

«You tell the crew to stop talking,» he told Silver. «Tell them if I catch them at it, and I will, there will be consequences, of a kind they most definitely don't want to see».

Silver looked at him with the kind of resigned disbelief Flint was getting used to receive from him. «I might as well tell the sea to stop being wet».

Flint stood up. «Your problem, not mine».

He left Silver there, contemplating the work being done on the _Walrus_ and most likely the possible reasons why his captain cared so much to stifle some stupid comments, if said comments were truly unfounded.

 

*

 

The night was warm and quiet, filled with the insistent song of crickets. You got that kind of nights sometimes in the Caribbean, when everything was peaceful and still and you could maybe feel that everything was in some way or other going to be all right. Of course, to Flint that had always rather felt like the calm before the storm. By now he'd learnt that if things could go wrong, they would so in the most spectacular fashion. The fact that they hadn't done it yet only meant that when they would at last, it would probably be even worse.

«I can hear you think, you know,» Charles Vane murmured.

They were sharing a room in the brothel. Flint had been reluctant at first – had loudly protested at first – it was too blatant, too obvious, too much in everyone's face. But Vane had insisted, Vane wouldn't be denied, and the  _Walrus_ was to set sail early in the morning, and Flint, though he would never admit to it out loud, was amenable to take some risk if it meant they could spend the night together. This was in many ways more comfortable. The room in the fort was private, but it could feel suffocating at times. Here they could leave the window half open, smell the night and hear the crickets, watch the wind rustling the brightly-coloured curtains. He felt a strange antsiness, a feeling he couldn't quite put his finger on, like they were running out of time, that had nothing to do with the fact that he had to leave the morning after. He'd left and come back a number of times; this feeling was new. He had to do something about it. He'd taken Vane a first time against the wall, almost lifting him up from the floor in his rush; then, after all of their clothes had been shed, a second time face down on the bed, grabbing him by that gorgeous hair of his, burying his face in the nape of Vane's neck one moment before coming. Now he was lying on the bed while Vane, still fully naked, had gone out on the little balcony to smoke. He was standing right on the doorstep; Flint could see his silhouette, dark in the middle of a small cloud of cigar smoke. The vegetation outside sheltered their windows from view; they were alone. It was easy to forget how risky this was.

He propped himself up, amongst the silken pillows. «Am I not allowed to think anymore?»

«You do too much of it». Vane didn't turn to look at him as he spoke. «It'll drive you mad».

That made him smile, somewhat bitterly. «Half of the hands on my crew already think I'm a madman anyway».

Vane shook his head. «You got vision,» he said. «Might be there's a kind of madness in that. But it's one I respect».

The ember of his cigar was a bright glow against the darkness of the night. The crickets had gone even louder, as if they had something important to say. Flint wished he could tell what it was. Perhaps it was a warning, and one he should heed.

The ember went out. Vane tossed the stub of the cigar over the balcony railing, and came back in. He stood by the foot of the bed, in the warm glow of the oil lamps. He was beautiful, Flint thought, before he could stop himself. The tight muscles, the long flowing hair, the shade of beard on his strong jaw, his sharp cheekbones, the dark nipples Flint had learnt from experience were surprisingly sensitive, even the brand on his chest, everything about him was beautiful. His piercing blue eyes, looking at Flint like a constant dare. He put himself on display, just like that. Naked, exposed, confident. He had no shame.

Thomas' last message to him, his last legacy, came back to his mind.  _My truest love, know no shame._

Perhaps Charles Vane had the right of it, after all.

«Thinking again,» Vane warned him.

There was no way Flint could tell him what about. «I'm not thinking,» he said instead. «I'm looking».

Vane chuckled. «Anything you like?»

«A couple things». Flint nodded in his direction, in a begrudging acknowledgement. «Come on, don't just stand there».

Vane climbed on the bed and came closer, like some kind of feline looking for prey. The way he moved, smooth and sensual and powerful, was enough to send a shiver down Flint's spine. When Vane wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him closer, Flint didn't oppose it. They kissed, less franticly, but not less hungrily. They kissed until Flint found himself out of breath and, to his own surprise, hard again.

Vane put his hands on Flint's shoulders, with a little satisfied smile. «That's better».

He was still moist from their previous coupling, enough that Flint could slip in with very little effort, though there was probably a bit of an edge to it that Vane seemed to relish. His back tensed and arched under Flint's hand, and Flint thought that the warmth inside him was that of his own seed, and the thought made him shiver with the filthiness of it. He brought his hips up to push in further, but Vane's hands pressed down on his shoulders, held him in place.

«No,» he whispered, his breath warm on Flint's ear. «Let me».

So he laid back against the headboard and let Vane ride him. Vane did it like he was on a mission, his pace slow and regular and deliberate, and Flint's hands were itching with the need to grab him and slam him down quicker and faster, but he knew Vane would oppose him if he tried. For a moment they locked eyes, and then suddenly it was too much and Flint turned his head to the side, because he couldn't bear it. Vane picked up pace then, silently mouthing his approval, hair bouncing on his shoulders, his chest slick with sweat from the exertion. His cock was straining against Flint's stomach, and when Flint wrapped his hand around it he could feel the blood pulse through it. 

Vane took everything he had to give him, and anything else he could take on his own, with such abandonment that it knocked the breath right out of Flint, until his rhythm finally faltered and he spilled all over Flint's fingers, cursing under his breath. Flint followed suit immediately after. He felt like the pleasure had been wrung out of him, almost forcibly; and for perhaps the first time since Thomas, he felt no guilt in it.

«How long will you be gone?» Vane asked him later, after they'd laid in silence for a while, on their side, his back against Flint's chest. Flint's fingers were playing through Vane's hair, absentmindedly; he was too tired to think of stopping it.

«It's not far,» he said. «I'll be back in ten days. Fifteen at most».

Vane hummed his acceptance. The crickets, outside, had gone quiet. They were in the dead of the night; even Nassau slept.

He couldn't kiss this man like he'd kissed Thomas, Flint thought, all of a sudden. He couldn't just lean in and kiss him on the lips, soft and sweet. It would have felt wrong, contrived. Yet a part of him perhaps wanted to. Truth was, he wasn't sure what he wanted himself, not anymore. This felt right, though: their bodies close and spent, in the warm quiet of the Caribbean night.

It would have to be enough.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is it. I suppose I could end it here and nobody would get hurt BUT NO, I love hurting myself that way so starting with next chapter we're picking up with season 3. I suppose if you want to believe this has a happy ending you can stop reading here and pretend the rest is not a thing...
> 
> (Also, I still pity poor Silver).


	10. IX.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the past comes back to Nassau and it's not good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, change of POV - since Flint is off raiding places and getting into storms and being stuck in doldrums and all that, we'll have a switched POV for the next few chapters. 
> 
> This might also be my excuse to give Charles Vane and Blackbeard a backstory (which I've wanted to do for the longest time and might still do in a separate fic once I'm done with this one...), since I'm firmly convinced those two work too well as past lovers not to do it.
> 
> I'm writing the bits in between scenes that we do see in season three episodes, so if you haven't watched that, there be spoilers (and also you may be confused by what's going on).

IX.

 

Flint had been gone for seventeen days now.

He'd said: fifteen at most. He was usually good with that kind of estimates. Yet no matter how much Charles Vane pointed his spyglass at it, the horizon remained obstinately empty of the  _Walrus_ . There was, of course, any kind of reasons for that delay. Weaker winds, repairs to the ship needed. Anything else. And yet.

It was not that he worried for Flint, or that he missed him, not as such. It was... frustrating. That protracted absence unnerved him, in the way a stupid mistake that could not be corrected would. It felt off. Besides, the situation in Nassau was far from ideal. The work at the fort was proceeding far too slowly, the discipline of the men left a lot to be desired, the plans for the defence of the island, when the moment would inevitably come to defend it, were still too vague. Though everyone had been quick to swear the oath, not many seemed to be eager to cooperate. Patience had never been Vane's main quality; the situation made him want to punch something. Flint could have probably handled it better, but Flint was still nowhere to be seen. There would have been other virtues to Flint's return, too, of a less official nature. Spending the night with Flint would not solve Nassau's problems, but it would certainly help ease his nerves.

So maybe he did miss Flint, a bit.

He had not spent much time pondering what kind of feelings he'd developed for the man; it was not his way of going about that kind of things. He understood the pleasure, even the comfort that came from it, and that was enough. He understood the value of having some kind of companionship. Now, though, in the gap left by Flint's protracted absence, he found himself thinking. Until that moment, the moment Flint had been gone for longer than expected, he had not quite realised the strength of the bond that had been forming between them. He'd been aware that the bond had been there since Charlestown; it was impossible for it not to be. But it had developed in unpredictable ways, and what had started out as a game had now evolved, Vane suspected, into something far more serious. There was a part of him that craved Flint's embrace. There was a part of him that wanted more from it, and more, and more. Perhaps, after all that had gone through with Eleanor, this was truly what he'd needed. Flint, of all people. Who would have thought.

He found himself scanning the horizon with his spyglass again, increasingly frustrated.

Jack's proposition that he took crew and ship to go chase a prize, timbers that could be used for the fort repairs, had sounded particularly blessed under those conditions. It was something to keep him occupied, and to ease his nerves. The thrill of the chase carried a relief of its own, one he'd always relished. In many ways, it was as good as sex, perhaps even better. He'd thrown himself into it. It was because of that, he suspected, that Jack's lie on the real nature of the prize's cargo had burnt, if that was possible, even worse.

Being forced to acquiesce to it was worse to the point that it made him want to punch the nearest wall until his knuckles were bloody. He'd retreated away from it like he was wounded, and perhaps he really was.

Blackbeard's sudden appearance had found him in such a foul mood that it had been almost welcome, as unpredicted and potentially dangerous as it was.

When he'd first seen Teach's face, found himself all at once with Teach's blade at his throat, Vane's first thought had been that he'd have to fight for his life. That Teach had, at long last, come for his revenge, and had somehow managed to do it at the worst possible moment. Perhaps he'd heard that Eleanor was gone, and decided he'd take the occasion. He certainly had not stopped to think in what conditions Eleanor being gone would leave Nassau. He didn't care enough about Nassau to think of it.

It turned out that Edward Teach didn't want a fight.

 

*

 

It was not until the end of a very frantic day that he finally got an occasion to talk to Teach alone. After their little three-way confrontation with Jack, the atmosphere at the inn had grown far too tense for them to comfortably stay there; no way was he reckless enough to follow Teach on board his ship, and so they ended up in the little room in the fort that Vane used as a study of sorts, Vane standing by the window and Teach sitting at the desk. It was a small mercy to be grateful for, he supposed, that Teach could have no clue on what he and Flint had done on that very same desk.

He waited for Teach to say something – anything really; even just to ask if he had any rum – but Teach was uncharacteristically silent. So it was going to be that kind of game, yet another time.

«What do you want then?» Vane asked at last. He kept looking outside, where the sky was turning purple with sunset. «You don't give a fuck about this place, you've made that clear. So what do you want?»

Teach made a little huffing sound that could have been laughter or disbelief. «What have I ever wanted?»

Vane had expected that; at least, a part of him had. «It's not that simple».

«Is anything ever,» Teach spat out, despise clear in his voice. «This shithole is not worth it, you know. Not anymore, if it ever was».

In the dusk, it was almost impossible to see the bay. You could catch a glimpse of the water, in the distance, if you knew where to look. «I swore an oath,» Vane said. «To defend this place. That must count for something».

«Must it?» He knew well that tone Teach had, almost teasing, meant to rile him up. «To defend what? A bunch of cowards, traitors, and whores. Charming. A man like you deserves better. The man who dared defy me deserves a lot better».

Vane turned to look at him then, and found him there, sitting at the desk, arms crossing over his chest, expectant. «It's not that simple,» he repeated.

Teach looked puzzled at that. «There's more to it than this oath of yours, is there? They're using slave labour to rebuild this place. The Charles Vane I knew would never have stood by that, would never have let it slide. There must be more. This is personal to you». He pondered it for a moment, turning the thought over in his mind. «It can't be that woman. Not after all that happened. You've always been a bit crazy, but you're not stupid». Another moment of silence. «Someone else, then».

Vane darted another look out of the window. The sea and the sky, and the land in between, were now the same uniform dark blue; lights were cropping up down by the bay. «If I told you, you wouldn't believe me».

Teach sighed. «Tell me it's not your friend Jack».

That made him chuckle, in spite of all. «Jack is a better man that you give him credit for, and trustworthy. But I very much doubt I would be to his taste. Nor he to mine».

Teach shook his head, a display of benevolent indulgence. «Who else, then? I can't think of anyone in this place, man or woman, good enough to catch your eye».

«That's where you have it wrong». He could still hold Blackbeard's gaze, he found with pleasure, fiery as it was. «There are remarkable people here. People who truly care about this place, about standing up to England. Who would fight to their very last for it. Who could bring others together, to fight for it».

For a long moment Teach stared at him under his thick black eyebrows, as if he was trying to read him. Then a spark of realisation lit up in his eyes.

«Not  _Flint_ ».

«Told you you wouldn't believe it,» Vane smirked.

A swearword slipped through Teach's lips. «Flint, for fuck's sake. The self-righteous prick. You can't be serious. I thought you despised him».

Vane shrugged. «Might be that my judgement of him was a bit rushed».

«Might be you've gone insane,» Teach replied. He cursed again. «Well, in any case, that solves it. I understand Flint's been gone quite a while. He's gone, and no fool him. Given the situation, I'd take the first occasion to get out of it, too».

He found himself shaking his head, before he could think of it. «Something must have delayed him, that's all. He said he'd be back».

«Because Flint has never been known to lie to anyone,» Teach quipped.

«You don't know Flint». To his own surprise, he found more passion in his voice than he thought he would have. «You don't know what it means to him. If he said he'll be back, he'll be back».

Teach stood up. Once again, Vane found himself being studied by those sharp, intelligent eyes of his. It made him feel like he was very young again, the bold but inexperienced boy that Edward Teach had first taken under his wing, whose character Teach had shaped in more ways than one.

«You know you can't wait forever,» Teach said. «I, on the other hand, know how to be patient. If you feel that you've something to tell me, you know where to find me».

He was gone from the room before Vane could even think of a decent reply.

 

*

 

The morning after he found himself once again on the fort's ramparts, spyglass in hand, scouring the horizon. Even that early in the morning, the heat was intense; he didn't care. He watched once again the familiar sets of sails in the bay, noted Blackbeard's own ship, at anchor a bit further than the others. Other than that, there was nothing worth pointing out.

_Come on, you bastard. Prove him wrong. Prove me right._

But in spite of all, the horizon remained empty.

 


	11. X.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are flashbacks, and Vane makes a choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Vane PoV, more season 3 spoilers, you have been warned. One line of dialogue is directly lifted from s3e3, though I'm trying not to do that whenever I can.
> 
> This chapter and the next will have *a lot* of flashbacks woven into them, because I could not resist the lure of backstory. In fact, I am now sort of tempted to write a separate fic just for that backstory once I am finished with this one...
> 
> Also, it made sense to me that there had to be some backstory to Israel Hands' dislike of Charles Vane, too.

_The first time he had met Edward Teach, he had been summoned. They'd come looking for him, that burly redhead Israel Hands, who appeared to be Teach's right-hand man at the time, and two more from his crew, big menacing fellows in case, Charles had assumed, he didn't want to go. But the way he saw it, he would have been crazy to turn them down. People in Nassau were ready to kill, not figuratively so, for an audience with Blackbeard. He was being offered one, without even having to ask. And him so young too, fierce as you will but not nearly experienced enough to catch the eye of a living legend like Blackbeard was. Only a complete fool would have let the opportunity slip through his fingers – even though the tone of Hands' voice, in announcing that Captain Teach wanted to see him, had been gruff enough to make it clear that Hands, for one, intensely disapproved._

_Charles Vane had not cared for that. Other men's disapproval had never deterred him._

_Yet he'd felt nervous during the silent crossing on the rowboat carrying him to Teach's ship, and even more when entering Teach's cabin. The room was dimly lit, a single candle burning on the desk; the ship creaked and rolled gently at anchor. The candle painted dark shadows on Teach's face, making his expression even harder to read. Charles had seen him before, of course, but never up close, and never much – the man was clever, he knew the best way to fuel the legend surrounding him was to make people feel like he was not fully part of their world, like they could not truly approach him, nor touch him, and most certainly not harm him. Charles Vane had certainly felt that way, and now, alone in the cabin with Teach, the thought had made him uneasy._

_It'd filled him with some odd, crazy form of courage, too._

_It had been that courage that had made him ask, against all caution, when it had become clear that Teach would not speak first, «What do you want from me?»_

_Teach had not moved in his chair, but there had been an interested glint in his eyes. He hadn't seemed offended by Charles' brazenness. «How would you like a place in my crew?»_

_It was the golden offer, the one every single young man in Nassau, including Charles Vane, dreamed to hear. But it also made no sense, and he'd told Blackbeard so, fueled by that weird courage that was probably going to get him killed. «You never take anyone on unless you've had plenty of proof they're good,»he'd pointed out. «Everyone knows that. You've made people fight to the death for the privilege. Why am I different?»_

_Teach had stood up then, and for a crazy moment Charles had thought that he'd have to fight_ him _, and that he didn't stand a chance of surviving it, and that he was going to try as hard as he could all the same. But Blackbeard had just stared at him. «Do you want it or not? I'm not asking a third time»._

_Even Charles had known not to taunt him further. «Of course I do»._

_Teach had nodded. «Then fetch your stuff and come back. Tell Mr Hands, he'll give you something to do. And from this moment on, you call me Captain»._

_On the rowboat again, on his way back to fetch his belongings, he'd wondered what the fuck had just happened. Israel Hands, sitting by his side and looking no less pleased than he had before, must have been able to read it on his face. «You really have no clue, have you?» he'd sneered, looking at Charles with some sort of unnerving satisfaction. «What you really signed up for»._

_Charles was not going to restrain himself with him like he had with Blackbeard, that was for sure. «Care to tell me, then?» he'd replied._

_«You think he likes the way you fight?» Hands had outright chuckled at that. «He likes the way you_ look _. He doesn't want a new hand on his crew, he wants a new whore in his bed»._

_Charles Vane would have gladly fought him for that, except in that moment, he'd suspected it was true._

 

*

 

X.

 

To Charles Vane's surprise, Teach kept his distance after their little conversation about Flint. On one thing he had been dead right: he was not the one in a hurry. He had all the time in the world, and he could afford to wait. Vane, on the other hand, was starting to feel a growing desire to fling his spyglass from the fort's rampart. He couldn't believe that Flint had truly fled the scene, but wherever he'd disappeared, it was hardly good news. By now his absence was getting too prolonged to pretend that nothing was amiss. If he'd really ran into foul play, as people were starting to whisper, then their fleet no longer had a commander, and it didn't take a genius to figure out what _that_ meant.

What it meant to him, he simply didn't want to stop and think about. He'd never been one to linger on pain. He'd learnt very quickly that, if he did that, pain could destroy him far too easily, and he was determined not to let it. The risk was simply too great. Look at Flint for an example: chased by the ghosts of his past wherever he went. Charles Vane liked to think that the ghosts of _his_ past were too scared to try.

Still, thoughts of that last night he'd spent with Flint before he left were getting that little bit too persistent, and as he left his look-out at the fort he decided to chase them away the only way he knew to. He grabbed his own bottle of rum, and headed for the inn.

He had not expected to find Blackbeard there, and yet there he was, sitting at a table surprisingly on his own. People were gaping at him from the distance, which suggested that he'd probably made it clear that he wanted to be left alone; little surprise that no one dared cross him. Charles Vane, however, had always been the exception. He made his way to Teach's table. «Care if I sit here? I could use some quiet».

Teach nodded. «Is that rum? I'll have some».

They drank in silence for a while, like they'd used to in the old times. Not looking at the people around them, he could almost have pretended that nothing had ever happened, nothing had ever changed. The thought brought a bitter smile to his lips. «You know, I didn't think you'd come back for me,» he said. «Or if you did, it'd be to kill me. I wasn't expecting this. Why now?»

Teach shrugged. His glass was empty; Vane suspected it had been for a while, and Teach had just let him drink on. «Your woman's in London getting herself hanged, and all the wives didn't work out. I'm not really that good at forgetting. You seem to do much better than me with that».

Vane didn't rise to the bait. Besides, the last thing he wanted to do was discuss Flint again. «You're still not trying to kill me».

«I've made quite the investment with you». Teach picked up the rum and filled his glass, with a sigh. «Gave you a ship, told you all my secrets, shot one of my best men in the face simply because he didn't like you. When you rose up against me, you know, I could have come back, flattened this place to the ground. You know I could have. No one could have stopped me, not you, not her, not anyone else. I didn't, for your sake. You would have tried to take me on, and then I would have had to stop you. I didn't want to. I cared too much». He sighed again. «I had to bear that mark, from then on. Before that, I had no weaknesses. After that, people knew I had at least one. But it was still worth it».

It was Vane's turn to nod. He'd known it, of course; perhaps he just needed to hear it, spoken out loud, from the man himself. «Do you really think we could go back to that?» he asked. «If I really took your offer, went back on my word, left all of this behind. Do you really think we could go back to it, like nothing ever happened?»

«Not like it never happened, maybe not,» Teach allowed. «But we could go back to something. We had a lot going, before all this shit came down». He looked up at Vane, and there was the slightest of smiles hidden in his beard, full of an unmistakable fondness. «Must you always be so stubborn?»

Vane found himself smiling back, before he could think better of it. «You wouldn't have me any other way».

«It seems I won't have you this way, either,» Teach noted. «Looks like I just can't win».

He pushed his chair back and got up. For a moment, Vane almost wanted to stop him. Then he just sat back and watched Teach walk away, and tried to berate the part of himself that maybe, just a bit, wanted to follow him, and found that he couldn't.

 

*

 

_He'd found, fairly soon, that Israel Hands had only told him half the truth. Teach wanted him in his bed, that much was true. Perhaps it was even the main reason why he'd wanted him on his crew. But it was not the only reason. There was some kind of promise Edward Teach saw in him, something the legendary pirate seemed to be interested in fostering. There was so much to be learnt from him, so much that he would have been unwilling to teach others – so much that indulging his desire was perhaps not too much of a price to pay for it._

_Besides, sharing Edward Teach's bed was not at all unpleasant. The man was insatiable when it came to pleasure, almost inhuman – he could go for hours, leaving Charles completely drained, and still not be entirely satisfied. He seemed to get satisfaction from giving pleasure as much as receiving it; he'd done things to Charles that Charles was not sure he had a name for, that had left him breathless, gasping, almost begging for more. Teach seemed to enjoy that more than anything else, even more than having Charles' head buried between his thighs, Charles' mouth on him, Charles' legs wrapped around him. There had been one time he'd parted Charles' legs and put his mouth on his hole, without warning, and done something with his tongue that had made Charles see stars, done it over and over again, until Charles had come with a shudder and collapsed face-down on the bed, barely able to put together a coherent thought. There had been other times; there had been other things. Blackbeard was a man of extremes, and he could be extremely generous in his giving, if you chose in turn to give him what he wanted._

_There was yet more – so much more that the idea that he was buying himself a place on Blackbeard's crew with his body had started to seem simply ridiculous to him. There were so many lessons; so many things learnt. Things learnt on a beach while the ship went through careening, hours upon hours of fencing, with his sword hand, with his left hand, with a hand tied behind his back, never quite managing to disarm Teach, coming close enough that he could feel proud of it. Things learnt on deck, listening to Teach negotiating with his quartermaster, setting a new course to make the most advantage of the wind, planning a strategy for boarding a ship or raiding a port. Things learnt below deck when the captain surprised the crew by joining them in drinking and dicing on a random night, or when he locked himself up in his cabin, alone, and Charles was left listening to the awed whispers of the men talking about Teach, the men that feared and admired him and would not have given it a second thought before dying at his command. And things learnt between the sheets, too, when Teach kissed the bruises he'd left him in the day's fencing drills and ran his fingers through Charles' hair, and rode him hard enough to make him scream. The first few times Charles had resorted to biting the pillow, or pressing his own hand to his mouth, so that there was no risk anyone from the crew would hear him. But Teach had swatted his hand away, and thrown the pillow to the other side of the cabin. That was a lesson learnt, too: that he should not be ashamed of what he wanted, nor hesitate in taking it, nor fear that others may get to know about it._

_Perhaps it was the most important lesson of them all._

 

*

 

The news of the English fleet approaching threw them all off balance.

It was exactly what they had feared, of course: what he and Flint had feared. _But far too soon,_ was Vane's first thought, when he heard it. They had expected a move of some sort, but they were nowhere near ready to face one, especially not an invasion on that scale. And Flint was still missing, too. Flint, he thought angrily, would have come up with something: he was just the kind of man to manage it, no matter how outnumbered, no matter how pressed for time. He'd done it under worse circumstances; had he been there, he would have done it again. But Flint was not there, and whatever the reason, it was still clear that someone else would have to do it in his place. The worst thing was, there was only one person Charles Vane could think of that could maybe manage it. The situation really left him no choice.

He had to go to Blackbeard, and it smarted.

Even before making his request –  _lead the fleet for us in Flint's stead, will you_ – he knew perfectly well what Teach was going to ask for in exchange. When the words came, they were exactly the ones he expected.  _I'm prepared to step into Captain Flint's shoes, unify those men, prosecute a defense of the harbor, and repel the Navy from here definitively if once I've done it, you agree to join me in sailing away from here for good._

Just a fancier way to say, _You're the price I want._

And yet, Teach didn't look smug about it as he asked precisely for what Vane had expected. If anything, he looked vaguely regretful. He didn't even smile as Vane told him that he'd do what Teach was asking for; he just looked serious, and oddly contrite. 

«Please don't pull that face,» Vane sighed, as he let himself fall on the nearest chair. «You got what you wanted, didn't you? The least you could do is not look so fucking grim about it».

The scowl didn't leave Teach's face, even at that. «I'm not doing this for myself,» he said. «I'm doing it because it's best for you. Though of course you'd never admit to it. You've always been stubborn».

«And you've always been known for taking what you want,» Vane replied. «Don't insult us both by pretending otherwise».

«Still». Teach's arms were crossed over his chest in a suspiciously defensive stance. «I wouldn't have wanted to force you».

That, at least, Vane could believe. He almost asked: _is this about your pride, or mine, or both?_ But knowing would not have made much difference, and they had more urgent matters to address.

«Flint will not be happy, you know,» he told Teach, as they made their way out of the room. «When he comes back, and finds that I'm gone».

«If he comes back,» Teach corrected him. «And I doubt he will».

 


End file.
